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A  NEW  YEAR'S  MASQUE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 
Limited  Edition,  printed  from  type.  i6mo,  gilt 
top,  $1.50. 

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top,  $1.25. 

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THE  INVERTED  TORCH.  Poems.  i6mo,$i.oo. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


FAIR   SHADOW  LAND 


BY 


EDITH    M.  THOMAS 


!  Portent  aliquant,  venti,  divum  referatis  ad  aures  " 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN    AND   COMPANY 

(Cbe  fttoerjsi&e  t^tejj, 
1893 


Copyright,  1893, 
BY  EDITH  M.  THOMAS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


TO  DR.  S.  R.  ELLIOTT 


305339 


FAIE   SHADOW  LAND. 

Fair  Shadow  Land  that  beckoning  gleams 
Beyond  the  twofold  gate  of  dreams, 
Whence  glide  a  murmuring  wizard  crew  ! 
Some  were  but  false  I  deemed  most  true, 
And  some  were  true  I  counted  vain  ; 
Some  fled  the  day,  and  some  remain. 
Fond  dreamer,  whosoe'er  thou  be, 
Have  not  thy  dreams  been  such  to  thee  ? 

Yet,  true  or  false,  they  are  the  friends 
Fair  Shadow  Land  in  pity  lends  — 
For  dreams  are  charms  to  sheathe  the  steel 
Of  all  we  here  too  keenly  feel ! 
At  the  white  gate  the  visions  crowd, 
Crying,  with  voices  sweet,  not  loud, 
"  Lo !  thy  deliverance  is  at  hand  — 
We  bring  it  from  Fair  Shadow  Land  !  " 


CONTENTS 


I.    IN  DIVERS  TONES 

PAGE 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  WINDS 3 

THE  REED  SHAKEN  WITH  THE  WIND            .          .           .  5 

THE  TORCHES  OF  THE  DAWN    .....  7 

THEFTS  OF  THE  MORNING 7 

SOLSTICE 9 

DEAD  LOW  TIDE 10 

IT  SO  CHANCED 12 

(THEY  SAID) 13 

A  WORLD  OF  ROSES 15 

THE  BETRAYAL  OF  THE  ROSE 17 

THE  DOMINO 17 

BAIN  AND  FAIR  WEATHER 19 

THE  BARRIER 20 

AUGURY 22 

AGAINST  CHAMPIONS 22 

LOSSES 23 

A  PARABLE  OF  HARVEST 24 

MENS  SANA    .........  25 

FINALITIES 27 

A  FAR  CRY  TO  HEAVEN 28 

A  FIRE  OPAL 29 

SILVER  AND  GOLD 30 

IN  ONE'S  AGE  TO  ONE'S  YOUTH      .       .       .       .  31 

THE  SHADOW-SELF 33 

A  CHANT  OF  THE  FOUGHT  FIELD   ....  34 

THE  RIVAL  OF  HEART's-EASE 35 

ON  THE  EVE  OF  SLEEP     ......  36 


vin  CONTENTS 

THE  ARABIAN   BIRD 38 

DREAMS 39 

EXPIATION 40 

LETHE 42 

FRAGMENT 42 

JUSTICE  AND  MERCY 43 

BROADWAY 44 

A  CHRISTOPHER  OF   THE   SHENANDOAH   ...  46 

THE  PRISONER  OF   THE  STANSINO         ....  49 

ARRIA 53 

ATYS  55 


II.    SOUTHFOLD  AND  THE  FLOCK 

SOTJTHFOLD  :   A   PARABLE  OF  LITTLE   STRANGERS  63 

CHILD  AND  POET 66 

DEW-BELLS            ........  68 

THE  NATURALIST 71 

SIGNS  OF  THE  SEASON 75 

TAMBERLIK   TO   THE   BIRDS 77 

SAID  THE   WREN   TO  THE   THRUSH    ....  78 

CROSSING   THE  BAY 79 

PETITS  NAUFRAGES 80 

HALF   SIGHT   AND   WHOLE   SIGHT             ....  82 

THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN 83 

THE   CLOSED  GENTIAN 84 

A  SEASIDE  ROSE 84 

THE  WOOD-PEWEE 85 

WHY  DID  YE  SO  ? 86 

CYBELE  AND  HER  CHILDREN 87 

LUCINA 89 

III.    LA  MUSE  S' AMUSE 

GRAND  PLANS 93 

THE  WISE  AND  THE  FOOLISH  SHEPHERD          .          .  94 

SPENSERIAN   STANZAS 96 

A  BARD  TO  HIS  MAECENAS 97 

WORLD-WIDE  FAME  97 


CONTENTS  ix 

ANAXAGORAS 98 

VANITY 98 

TRAVELING  FOR  HEALTH 98 

THE  RURAL  MUSE 99 

A   STYLE  OF  HIS  OWN 99 

THE   SILENT  PARTNER 99 

A  LUCUBRATION             .......  99 

PATIENCE   CEASED  TO   BE  A   VIRTUE    ....  100 

MISTAKEN  MAGNANIMITY 100 

A  COUNTER                 100 

THE   SOCIAL  TIGRESS 101 

COOPERATION .101 

A  BIRD  FROM   THE   CAGE 101 

URBS  IN  RURE 101 

A  VIOLET  IN  NOVEMBER 102 

A  POET 102 

THE   STAR  IN  THE   STREAM 102 

THE   SOUL  IN  THE  BODY 103 

INSOMNIA 103 

THE  FLOWER  OF  DREAMS 103 

BETWEEN  TWO 103 

DE  MORTUIS .           .  104 

AN  AUTOGRAPH 104 

DISTINCTION 104 

A  RHYME  OF  LIFE 104 

THE  DERELICT 105 

OPINION 105 

NODDING  CRITICS 105 

IV.    SONNETS  AND  EPILOGUE 

THE  WINE   OF   LUSITANIA 109 

PASADA   MANANA     .                                109 

THE   BITTER-SWEET   OF   SPRING           ....  110 

DEEP-SEA   SPRINGS 113 

TIME 114 

MIST 115 

THE  ROOF-TREE 116 

THE  GARDEN  ON  THE   PANE                                                          ,  116 


COXTESTI 


-     :     - 

:    -      --::    -    -  :. 


13S 


I 

DIYTRS  TOXES 


FAIR  SHADOW  LAND 


A   LEGEND   OF  THE  WINDS 

A  LEGEND  of  the  winds.   Euroclydon, 

That  driveth  from  the  bitter  Thracian  shore, 
Brings  this :    "  What  deeds  the  sea  and  I  have 

done, 
This  passing  night,  will  make  men  murmur 

sore; 
The  deep,  that  hath  already  goodly  store 

Of  jewels  and  wrought  gold  and  coined  gold, 
Hath  gathered  through  his  sunken  secret  door 
A  largess  richer  by  a  thousand-fold,  — 
.Great   perished   lives  —  and   this   is   all   that 
shall  be  told." 

A  legend  of  the  winds.     The  herald  West, 

That  haileth  from  the  sea  beyond  the  straits, 
Brings  this  :    "  Long,  long  and  vexed  hath  been 

their  quest 

Who  seek  the  lands  before  the  sunset  gates ; 
But  peace   shall  soon  betide  those  tossed  ship 
mates. 
A  glad  green  shore  the  morning  light  will  show, 


4  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

And  sacred  trees  shall  yield  them  oil  and  dates. 
There  waving  meads  men  neither  reap  nor  sow  ; 
There  amaranth  and  asphodel  together  blow." 

A  legend  of  the  winds.     Septentrio  keen 

(That  bloweth  through  the  sky  a  phantom  fire  ; 

Whose  plumes  are  lances  felt,  though  all  unseen) 

Brings  this :  "  Three  weavers  have  the  gods  in 

hire 
To  weave  you  well  the  garb  oj  your  desire. 

With  days  and  powers  and  all  delights  are  fed 

Their  distaffs  feeding  still  the  swift  wheel's  gyre  ; 

On  the  land's  verge  they  sit  and    draw  the 

thread  — 

On  the  white  shore  where  none  is  living,  none 
.    is  dead!" 

A  legend  of  the  winds.     The  idle  South 

(That  singeth  old,  remembered  songs  most  dear, 
As  who  within  a  dream  lifts  to  his  mouth 

A  mellow  reed,  and  yet  no  sound  doth  hear) 
Brings  this  :  "  All  through  the  bounteous  golden 

year 

Are  flowers  and  fruit  together  on  the  boughs  : 
Song  hath  a  pleasant  tentage  there,  anear 

A  deep,  sweet  stream,  where  many  come  with 

vows, 

And  all  are  crowned  with  cooling  green  upon 
their  brows." 


THE  REED  SHAKEN  WITH  THE  WIND   5 

THE  REED  SHAKEN  WITH  THE  WIND 

"  Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind." 

VEX  not  that  impassioned  soul 
Whereupon  all  issues  roll, 
Fraught  with  joy  or  fraught  with  woe, 
That  our  common  lot  may  know. 
Nay,  but  as  thou  canst,  assuage 
The  burden  of  his  heritage  ; 
For  there  live  within  his  breast 
Memory,  foresight,  all  unrest, 
Whether  pain  or  pleasure  hold 
The  heart's  recesses  manifold. 
Sooner  torrent  from  the  steep 
Midway  shall  be  charmed  asleep 
Than  his  spirit's  mobile  tide 
In  a  flawless  calm  abide. 
Sooner  shall  the  fires  be  dead, 
In  the  earth's  dark  centre  bred, 
Than  his  deep  and  glowing  heart 
With  its  constant  fervor  part. 
Sooner  shall  the  whisper  light 
Die  from  off  the  poplar's  height, 
When  the  air  is  still  below, 
Than  his  soul  no  quickening  know 
From  the  winds  that  breathe  abroad, 
Mute  save  to  this  child  of  God. 


IN  DIVERS   TONES 

More  than  its  own  joy  and  pain 

Shall  this  heart  of  hearts  constrain, 

For  as  chords  unstruck  respond 

With  mysterious  tremblings  fond, 

When  their  fellow  chords  are  swept, 

So  it  is  with  Heaven's  adept. 

Loved  and  lover  if  he  meet, 

Quick  as  theirs  his  pulses  beat ; 

And  the  mourner,  treading  slow, 

Uncompanioned  shall  not  go  ; 

Yet  forever  youth  and  mirth 

Claim  him  nearest  kin  on  earth. 

No  indifferent  hour  betides 

Him  with  whom  all  Life  divides. 

Vex  him  not,  and  he  will  be 

Voice  unto  thy  mystery. 

When  thy  thought  thou  canst  not  name, 

He  will  tell  from  whence  it  came. 

Things  most  sweet  and  fugitive 

Will  to  him  their  errand  give ; 

Morning  dreams  that  smile  through  tears, 

Sunset  rays  from  sunken  years, 

And  the  morrow's  haunting  call  — 

He  can  name  these  each  and  all. 

Bring  thy  loves,  thy  sorrows  bring, 

These  he  shall  divinely  sing ; 

But  thy  hates  thou  shalt  withhold, 

Lest  those  strings  of  magian  gold 

Witli  the  stress  of  anger  break, 

Or  but  muted  chords  awake ! 


THEFTS   OF  THE  MORNING 


THE   TORCHES   OF  THE  DAWN 

BENEATH  the  rough,  black  verge  where  ledgy 

isle 
And    serried  wave    and  fragment    cloud    are 

hurled, 

Swift  through  the  underworld  — 
Lo  where  the  torchmen  of  the  Dawn  defile  ! 

Unseen   they   march   beneath   the   rough,  black 

verge, 
Unseen,  save  from  the  torches  which  they  bear, 

Smoke  and  a  crimson  flare, 
Wind-blown  one  way,  show  where  their  course 
they  urge ! 


THEFTS   OF  THE  MORNING 

BIND  us  the  Morning,  mother  of  the  stars 
And  of  the  winds  that  usher  in  the  day ! 
Ere  her  light  fingers  slide  the  eastern  bars, 
A  netted  snare  before  her  footsteps  lay  ; 
Ere  the  pale  roses  of  the  mist  be  strown, 
Bind  us  the  Morning,  and  restore  our  own ! 

With  her  have  passed  all  things  we  held  most 

dear, 
Most  subtly  guarded  from  her  amorous  stealth  ; 


8  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

We  nothing  gathered,  toiling  year  by  year, 
But  she  hath  claimed  it  for  increase  of  wealth ; 
Our  gems  make   bright  her  crown,  incrust  her 

throne  : 
Bind  us  the  Morning,  and  restore  our  own ! 

Where  are  they  gone,  who  round  our   myrtles 

played, 

Or  bent  the  vines'  rich  fruitage  to  our  hands, 
Or   breathed   deep   song   from    out  the  laurels' 

shade  ? 

She  drew  them  to  her ;  who  can  slack  the  bands? 
What  lure  she  used,  what  toils,  was  never  known  : 
Bind  us  the  Morning,  and  restore  our  own ! 

Enough  that  for  her  sake  Orion  died, 
Slain  by  the  silver  Archer  of  the  sky  — 
That  Ilion's  prince  amid  her  splendors  wide 
Lies  chained  by  age,  nor  wins  his  prayer  to  die  ; 
Enough !    but    hark !     our   captive    loves   make 

moan  : 
Bind  us  the  Morning,  and  restore  our  own ! 

We  have  beheld  them  whom  we  lost  of  old, 
Among  her  choiring  Hours,  in  sorrow  bowed. 
A  moment  gleam  their  faces,  faint  and  cold, 
Through  some  high  oriel  window  wreathed  with 

cloud, 

Or  on  the  wind  before  her  they  are  blown  : 
Bind  us  the  Morning,  and  restore  our  own  ! 


SOLSTICE  9 

They  do  her  service  at  the  noiseless  looms 
That  weave  the  misty  vesture  of  the  hills  ; 
Their  tears  are  drink  to  thirsting  grass  and 

blooms, 
Their  breath  the  darkling  wood-bird  wakes  and 

thrills  ; 

Us  too  they  seek,  but  far  adrift  are  thrown : 
Bind  us  the  Morning,  and  restore  our  own  ! 

Yea,  cry  her  Thief!  from  where  the  light  doth 

break 

To  where  it  merges  in  the  western  deep ! 
If  aught  of  ours  she,  startled,  should  forsake, 
Such  waifs  the  waiting  Night  for  us  will  keep. 
But  stay  not ;  still  pursue  her,  falsely  flown  : 
Bind  us  the  Morning,  and  restore  our  own ! 


SOLSTICE 

IN  the  month  of  June,  when  the  world  is  green, 
When  the  dew  beads  thick  on  the  clover  spray, 
And  the  noons  are  rife  with  the  scent  of  hay, 
And  the  brook  hides  under  a  willow  screen  ; 
When  the  rose  is  queen,  in  Love's  demesne, 
Then,   the  time  is  too  sweet  and  too  light  to 

stay  : 
Whatever  the  sun  and  the  dial  say, 

This  is  the  shortest  day  ! 


10  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

In   the  month  of   December,  when,  naked  and 

keen, 

The  treetops  thrust  at  the  snow-cloud  gray, 
And  frozen  tears  fill  the  lids  of  day ; 
When  only  the  thorn  of  the  rose  is  seen, 
Then,  in  heavy  teen,  each  breath  between, 
We  sigh,  "  Would  the  winter  were  well  away  !  " 
Whatever  the  sun  and  the  dial  say, 

This  is  the  longest  day  ! 


DEAD   LOW   TIDE 

IT  is  dead  low  tide,  and  the  wasted  sea  beats  far ; 
Up  from  the  caves  of  the  underworld  slowly 

climb 

Night  and  her  shadows  unconquered  from  eld 
est  time  ! 

The  cry  of  the  sea-bird  is  hushed  on  the  glimmer 
ing  bar, 

And  the  beach,   with  its   strewing  of    dulse,   is 
lonely  and  wide : 
It  is  dead  low  tide. 

The  rocks  are  divulged,  that  hidden  and  cruel  lie, 
Under  the  waves  in  wait,  as  the  beast  in  its  lair  ! 
Huge  and  harmless  they  shoulder  the  dusk 

night  air  ; 

A  lighthouse  gleams  —  they  are  charmed  by  its 
sorcerous  eye  ! 


DEAD   LOW   TIDE  11 

The   rocks    are  uncovered,   and    many  a  wreck 
beside  : 

It  is  dead  low  tide. 

Not  now  shall  the  willing  keel  slip  down  to  the 

sea, 
Not  now  shall  the  home-desiring  bark  come 

home  ; 
The  rocking  surge  is  a  dream,  and  the  flying 

foam, 

And  the  sails  that  over  the  windy  billows  roam  — 
A  dream  !  for  the  sea  is  gone,  and  the  wind  has 
died  : 

It  is  dead  low  tide. 

There  is  rest  from  motion,  from  toil ;  yet  it  is 

not  rest ! 
The    sounds  of   the  land  and  the  sea-sounds 

falter  and  cease  ; 
The  wave  is  at  peace  with  the  shore  ;  yet  it 

is  not  peace  ! 
As  the  soldier  at  truce,  as  the  pilgrim  detained 

on  his  quest, 

Baffled  and  silent,  yet  watchful,  all  things  abide 
The  turn  of  the  tide. 

I  too  abide.     To  the  spirit  within  responds 
The  baffled  yet  watchful  spirit  of  all  things 
without. 


12  IN  DIVERS    TONES 

"  Shall  I  rest  forever,  beleaguered  by  sloth  and 

doubt  ?  " 

"  Not   so ;  thou   shalt   rise    and   break   the    en 
chanted  bonds, 

And  the  limit  that  mocked  thee  with  laughter 
shalt  override 

At  turn  of  the  tide  !  " 

Still  higher  the  Night  ascends,  and  star  upon  star 
Arises    by    low -lying   isle,  and    by  headland 

steep, 
And  fathoms  with  silver  light  the  slumbering 

deep 

Hark !  was  it  a  lapsing  ripple  along  the  bar  ? 
Hark !  was  it  the  wind  that  awoke,  remembered, 
and  sighed  ? 

Is  it  turn  of  the  tide  ? 


IT   SO   CHANCED 

IT  so  chanced 

On  that  leaden-hearted  day, 
Rugged  winter  leagues  away, 
As  he  thought  of  her  there  came 
On  the  waste  a  sunny  flame 
Wherewithin  the  frost-mote  danced, 
While  an  echo  rang  her  name. 

It  so  chanced. 


(THEY  SAID}  13 

It  so  chanced 

On  that  evening  bleak  and  hard, 
Martial-couched  on  frozen  sward, 
As  he  thought  of  her  there  crept 
Music  down  the  blast,  that  kept 
All  his  senses  dream-entranced, 
While,  from  ambush  watched,  he  slept. 

It  so  chanced. 

It  so  chanced 

In  that  twilight  winged  with  ill, 
When  his  pierced  heart  stood  still, 
As  he  dreamed  of  her,  he  passed ! 
Then,  from  out  the  circling  Vast, 
With  a  smile  his  love  advanced  — 
"  I,  to  meet  thee,  have  sped  fast !  " 
It  so  chanced. 


(THEY   SAID) 

BECAUSE  thy  prayer  hath  never  fed 
Dark  Ate  with  the  food  she  craves ; 
Because  thou  dost  not  hate  (they  said), 
Nor  joy  to  step  on  foemen's  graves  ; 
Because  thou  canst  not  hate,  as  we, 
How  poor  a  creature  thou  must  be, 
Thy  veins  as  pale  as  ours  are  red ! 
Go  to !  Love  loves  thee  not  (they  said). 


14  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

Because  by  thee  no  snare  was  spread 
To  baffle  Love  —  if  Love  should  stray, 
Because  thou  dost  not  watch  (they  said), 
To  strictly  compass  Love  each  way  : 
Because  thou  dost  not  watch,  as  we, 
Nor  jealous  Care  hath  lodged  with  thee, 
To  strew  with  thorns  a  restless  bed  — 
Go  to !   Love  loves  thee  not  (they  said). 

Because  thy  feet  were  not  misled 
To  jocund  ground,  yet  all  infirm, 
Because  thou  art  not  fond  (they  said), 
Nor  dost  exact  thine  heyday  term  : 
Because  thou  art  not  fond,  as  we, 
How  dull  a  creature  thou  must  be, 
Thy  pulse  how  slow  —  yet  shrewd  thy  head ! 
Go  to  !  Love  loves  thee  not  (they  said). 

Because  thou  hast  not  roved  to  wed 
With  those  to  Love  averse  or  strange, 
Because  thou  hast  not  roved  (they  said), 
Nor  ever  studied  artful  change : 
Because  thou  hast  not  roved,  as  we, 
Love  paid  no  ransom  rich  for  thee, 
Nor,  seeking  thee,  unwearied  sped. 
Go  to !  Love  loves  thee  not  (they  said). 

Ay,  so  !  because  thou  thought'st  to  tread 
Love's  ways,  and  all  his  bidding  do, 
Because  thou  hast  not  tired  (they  said), 
Nor  ever  wert  to  Love  untrue  : 


A   WORLD   OF  ROSES  15 

Because  thou  hast  not  tired,  as  we, 
How  tedious  must  thy  service  be  ; 
Love  with  thy  zeal  is  surfeited  ! 
Go  to !  Love  loves  thee  not  (they  said). 

Because  thou  hast  not  wanton  shed 
On  every  hand  thy  heritage, 
Because  thou  art  not  flush  (they  said), 
But  h^st  regard  to  meagre  Age : 
Because  thou  art  not  flush,  as  we, 
How  strait  thy  cautious  soul  must  be, 
How  well  thy  thrift  stands  thee  in  stead  ! 
Go  to !  Love  loves  thee  not  (they  said). 

And  therefore,  look  thou  not  for  bread  — 
For  wine  and  bread  from  Love's  deep  store, 
Because  thou  hast  no  need  (they  said) ; 
But  us  he  '11  feast  forevermore  ! 
Because  thou  hast  no  need,  as  we, 
Sit  in  his  purlieus,  thou,  and  see 
How  with  Love's  bounty  we  are  fed ! 
Go  to  !  Love  loves  thee  not  (they  said). 


A  WORLD   OF   ROSES 

SHE  had  a  world  of  roses 
For  half  a  wondrous  day. 

It  was  the  thorny  season, 
The  summer  far  away. 


16  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

From  space  unknown  they  rallied, 
By  rhythmic  charm  compelled  ; 

Their  faces  pale  or  crimson 
Close  to  her  own  they  held. 

She  laughed  amid  her  rose-guard, 

It  was  a  merry  rout, 
That  mocked  the  thorny  season, 

And  shut  its  white  face  out. 

Each  rose  its  heart  did  open, 
All  tropic-rich  and  sweet ; 

Each  rose-heart,  kind  and  courtly, 
With  her  own  heart  did  beat. 

Untouched  hy  time  or  canker, 
They  fled,  and  left  no  trace. 

And  then  the  thorny  season 
Thrust  in  its  blanched  face. 

Had  she  not  wiselier  chosen 
For  every  day  one  rose, 

Instead  of  this  brief  revel 

From  Elfland's  garden-close  ? 

Howe'er  it  be  I  know  not ; 

This  only  will  she  say, 
"  I  had  my  world  of  roses 

For  half  a  wondrous  day  !  " 


THE  DOMINO  17 


THE   BETRAYAL   OF   THE   ROSE 

A  WHITE  rose  had  a  sorrow  — 

And  a  strange  sorrow  ! 
For  her  sisters  they  had  none, 
As  they  all  sat  around  her 

Each  on  her  feudal  throne. 

A  strange  sorrow 
For  one  with  no  to-morrow, 
No  yesterday,  to  call  her  own, 
But  only  to-day. 

A  white  rose  had  a  sorrow  — 

And  a  sweet  sorrow ! 
She  had  locked  it  in  her  breast 
Save  that  one  outer  petal, 
Less  guarded  than  the  rest 

(Oh,  fond  sorrow  !), 
From  the  red  rose  did  borrow 
Blushes,  and  the  truth  confessed 
In  the  red  rose's  way  ! 


THE   DOMINO 

I  MET  a  pilgrim  clothed  in  hodden  gray ; 
E'er  any  greeting  word  I  found  to  say, 
He  cried  in  accents  masterful  and  stern, 
"  My  name  Indifference,  I  pray  you  learn, 


18  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

Nor  bar  the  way  when  I  am  passing  by." 
"  You  look  like  Love,"  quoth  I. 

I  met  a  lording  in  a  purple  cloak 
Most  bravely  garnished ;  yet  like  churl  he  spoke, 
And  bade  me  heed  he  came  of  courtly  strain, 
Somewhile  called  Pride,  and  otherwhile  Disdain, 
Whose  favor  none  might  hope  to  beg  or  buy. 
"  You  look  like  Love,"  quoth  I. 

I  met  a  wight  arrayed  in  martial  red, 
And  on  his  shield  a  heart  shaft-bitten  bled. 
"  I  Anger  am,  I  bear  both  sword  and  fire  ; 
At  my  approach  all  men  affrayed  retire. 
They  forfeit  life,  who  will  not  turn  and  fly !  " 
"  You  look  like  Love,"  quoth  I. 

I  met  a  damsel,  drooping-eyed  and  sad, 

And  like  a  holy  sister  she  was  clad. 

Some  cordial  from  a  slender  flask  she  poured, 

And  smiled,  and  bade  me  drink ;  —  't  was  Pity's 

hoard, 

To  succor  wounded  ones  that  else  must  die. 
"  You  look  like  Love,"  quoth  I. 

I  met  a  fugitive  distraught,  undone, 
Who    sometimes    stayed   for    dread,    and    some 
times  run. 

Though  lord  of  all  that  sweetest  bards  have  sung, 
Not  one  poor  word  supplied  his  halting  tongue, 


RATN  AND  FAIR  WEATHER  19 

But  all  his  soul  he  lavished  in  a  sigh. 
"  So,  you  are  Love  !  "  quoth  I. 


RAIN   AND   FAIR   WEATHER 

MAIDEN,  of  old  to  old  Hesperia  came 

A  Grecian  youth,  revolving  in  his  thought 

The  purport  of  the  Voice  at  Delphi  heard  : 

ft  Lay  thou  thy  city's  walls  where  thou  shalt  see 

Rain  and  Fair  Weather  in  the  selfsame  spot." 

It  was  upon  the  ridge  Tarentum  laves 

He  paused  and  marveled  at  this  pleasing  sight : 

A  damsel  in  the  loveliness  of  morn, 

But  over  the  sweet  heaven  of  her  face 

Some  lonely  sorrow  had  compelled  the  veil 

That  April's  ringers  are  most  deft  to  weave, 

Wronging  the  landscape  and  the  skies  of  Spring 

Only  to  lure  and  make  us  love  them  more. 

Then  said  that  youth  (of  no  untutored  heart, 

In  far  Achaia  blest  with  parting  tears 

And  misty  lovelight  in  regretting  eyes)  — 

Then  said  that  youth,  "  Here  shall  my  city  be ; 

For  here  I  saw  Fair  Weather  wed  with  Rain, 

And  Iris,  of  their  happy  union  born." 

Thence  rose  Crotona's  walls,  —  there  stand  to-day 

Maiden,  thus  far  't  is  either  truth  or  fable  ; 

For  the  long  lapsing  Ages  senile  grow, 

And  babble  idly  of  the  World's  wise  youth  — 


20  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

Thus  far  't  is  truth  or  fable,  as  thou  wilt ; 
But  this  I  speak  is  truth,  upon  whose  pulse 
Pressing  the  finger,  all  its  sacred  speech 
Leaps  clear  in  this  live  moment !  wherefore  I, 
0  Beauty,  lay  the  walls  of  glorious  hope 
Upon  this  omen  of  thy  dear  dismay,  — 
Thy  tranquil  being  shaken  with  quick  tears, 
And  thou  not  so  much  hiding  them,  in  sooth, 
As  thou  dost  struggle  to  keep  back  the  ray 
That  shines  beyond  and   through   their   crystal 

bar! 

Be  this  warm  love  for  me !  Is  it  not  so  ? 
Silent,  thou  lendest  hope  ;  I  build  thereon  ; 
And  building,  first  will  I  inclose  a  shrine, 
To  hold  in  ever-blessed  memory 
This  moment  of  thy  blended  tears  and  smiles. 


THE   BARRIER 

THE  gate  stood  wide,  and  wide  the  door, 
As  on  a  thousand  nights  before, 
And  in  their  wonted  threshold  tryst 
The  lamplight  and  the  moonlight  kissed. 
The  room  its  welcoming  graces  wore, 
As  on  a  thousand  nights  before ; 
The  soul  of  all  that  mansion  bright 
Sent  out  a  voice  into  the  night, 
As  on  a  thousand  nights  before. 


THE  BARRIER  21 

What 's  this  ?  Across  the  open  door 

Some  viewless  threads,  so  silken  fine, 

Do  challenge  every  pass  of  mine ; 

So  silken  fine,  so  airy  light, 

Yet  stanch  with  cruel  magic  might ! 

There  is  no  Arab  cimeter 

Can  part  such  threads  of  gossamer, 

Nor  any  storm  can  rend  adrift, 

Nor  fire  devour  with  tongues  most  swift. 

Such  silken  courses  stronger  are 
Than  bolt  on  bolt,  or  forged  bar, 
More  fell  than  lance  of  hedging  guard, 
Than  dragon  or  the  couchant  pard  ; 
For  these  at  length  a  conqueror  know, 
Or  opiate  draught  or  steely  blow  ; 
Grown  tired  of  leaguer  and  delay, 
Love  can  by  might  put  these  away, 
But  Love  no  cunning  weapon  hath 
To  cleave  the  gossamer's  viewless  path. 

Wide  open  stands  the  gate  —  the  door, 
As  on  a  thousand  nights  before  ; 
Yet  I  therethrough  may  pass  no  more, 
As  on  a  thousand  nights  before ! 


22  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

AUGURY 


A  HORSESHOE  nailed,  for  luck,  upon  a  mast : 
That  mast,   wave-bleached,  upon  the  shore  was 

cast! 

I  saw,  and  thence  no  fetich  I  revered, 
But  safe,  through  tempest,  to  my  haven  steered. 

ii 

The  place  with  rose  and  myrtle  was  o'ergrown, 
Yet  Feud  and  Sorrow  held  it  for  their  own. 
A  garden  then  I  sowed  without  one  fear,  — 
Sowed  fennel,  yet  lived  griefless  all  the  year. 

in 

Brave  lines,  long  life,  did  my  friend's  hand  dis 
play. 

Not  so  mine  own  ;  yet  mine  is  quick  to-day. 
Once  more  in  his  I  read  Fate's  idle  jest, 
Then  fold  it  down  forever  on  his  breast. 


AGAINST  CHAMPIONS 

Nay  !     Champions  had  I  many,  and  unsought : 
Valiant,    and   ignorant   why   they   fought,  they 

fought ! 

Each  did  in  turn  become  my  rooted  foe ; 
Each  found  a  vital  mark,  each  dealt  a  blow  ! 


LOSSES  23 

Quick  tears  they  dropped  for  me  —  those  springs 

congealed, 

Never  a  later  summer's  touch  unsealed  ; 
Each  balmed,  at  first  my  wounds  —  but  long  ago 
Each  found  a  vital  mark,  and  dealt  a  blow  ! 

So   do   not   thou!     Stand   far   and  stanch,  my 

hope  — 

Far  from  dark  strife,  while  with  my  foes  I  cope ; 
Shine  as  a  star,  the  tossing  seas  above  — 
But  come  not  as  a  champion  —  thou,  my  love  ! 


LOSSES 

SPEED  had  not  served,  strength  had  not  flowed 

amain, 

Heart  had  not  braced  me,  for  this  journey's  strain, 
Had  I  foreseen  what  losses  must  be  met ; 
But  drooping  losel  was  I  never  yet ! 

So  rich  in  losses  through  long  years  I  Ve  grown, 
So  rich  in  losses  (and  so  proud,  I  own) 
Myself  I  pity  not,  but  only  such 
As  have  not  had,  nor  therefore  lost,  so  much. 

Behind  me  ever  grew  a  hungry  Vast 
Which  travelers  fear  to  face,  but  call  the  Past ; 
So  much  it  won  from  me  I  can  but  choose 
To  exult  that  I  Ve  so  little  left  to  lose. 


24  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

• 

When  that  shall  go,  as  fain  it  is  to  go 
(Like  some  full  sail  when  winds  of  voyage  blow), 
At  this  late  nick  of  time  to  murmur  sore 
Were  idle,  since  so  much  I  've  lost  before  ! 

So  much  I  've  lost,  lost  out  of  hand  —  ah,  yes ! 
But  were  that  all,  my  fortune  I  could  bless ; 
For  whensoever  aught  has  slipped  away, 
Some  dearer  thing  has  gone  to  find  the  stray ; 

And  then,  to  find  the  finder  loth  or  slow, 
Yet  dearer  thing  my  wistful  heart  let  go, 
With  hope  like  his  whose  glancing  arrow  gave 
The  clue  to  Pari-banou's  palace-cave. 

Perchance  one  loss  the  more,  regains  the  whole, 
Lost  loves  and  faith  and  young  delight  of  soul : 
I  'm  losing  —  what  ?  ah,  Life,  join  thou  the  quest ; 
It  may  be,  to  be  lost,  is  not  unblest ! 


A  PARABLE   OF   HARVEST 

WHAT  hast  thou  in  thy  garner,  husbandman  ? 

Good  grain  and  fair. 
Then  what  are  these  black  seeds  full  ill  to  scan  ? 

Cockle  and  tare. 

But  tell  me,  O  thou  toil-bent  husbandman, 
How  came  they  there  ? 


MENS  SANA  25 

They  would  not  rise  before  the  winnowing  fan. 
Despite  my  care. 

But  how  did  spring  the  cockle,  husbandman, 

And  how  the  tare, 
Thy  goodly  land  to  plague  ?     Beneath  a  ban, 

I  sowed  them  there. 

Declare  whence  came  the  seed,  old  husbandman, 

With  truth  declare ! 
The  grain  my  fathers  had  not  skill  to  fan, 

Such  fruit  doth  bear. 


MENS   SANA 

IN  the  hoary  wine-cave's  mirk 

Genii  of  the  vintage  lurk,  — 

Potent  genii  shrewd  and  merry  : 

Burgundy  and  laughing  Sherry, 

Sweet  Tokay  and  Muscatel, 

That  of  flowers  do  taste  and  smell 

(Fit  to  pledge  with  Ariel)  ; 

Cloying  Port  and  blithe  Champagne, 

Greekish  wines  and  wines  of  Spain,  — 

Jovial  all,  and  all  unsteady  ! 

Subtle  liqueurs  strange  and  heady,  — 

Cura§oa  and  Anisette, 

And  Absinthe  wooing  to  forget. 

These  besiege  you  as  you  fare 


26  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

Groping  from  the  upper  air  ; 

Tap  nor  spigot  do  they  ask 

To  set  them  free  from  hooped  cask. 

If  you  be  an  anchorite, 

They  will  take  your  brain  by  sleight, 

Enter  with  the  breath  you  draw, 

And  each  pore  will  be  a  flaw 

To  let  in  the  vinous  rout. 

But  if  there  you  drink  a  bout, 

While  the  winking  candle-ray 

Lights  the  wine  upon  its  way, 

And  the  ancient  cellarer  prates 

Mellowly  of  names  and  dates,  — 

Of  holitides  when  Bacchus  bled, 

Of  revels  and  of  revelers  fled,  — 

If  a  pledge  or  two  you  quaff, 

At  these  genii  you  may  laugh, 

For  their  cunning  in  your  veins 

Makes  you  proof  to  all  their  trains. 

Prince,  my  counsel  scan  and  muse  ; 
In  this  life  of  glimmering  clues, 
Where  the  wisest  ofttimes  slip, 
Fare  you  not  with  unwet  lip. 
Drink  you  must  the  potion  rife 
Of  the  olden  vintage  Life  ; 
So  shall  you  be  more  exempt, 
When  the  juggling  genii  tempt, 
Than  the  pale  recluse  whose  cell 
Harbors  many  a  traitor  fell. 


FINALITIES  27 

Caution  shall  more  peril  meet 
Than  ardor  borne  on  glowing  feet. 
Fiery  spirit  safe  shall  tent 
Its  own  deathless  element, 
And  the  poet,  mad  from  birth, 
Is  the  sanest  soul  on  earth ! 


FINALITIES 

GOLD  can  be  but  gold  alone, 
Midas'  touch  it  cannot  own  ; 
For  the  lightning  there  's  no  scath, 
For  the  fire  no  flaming  bath. 
Canst  thou  clarify  the  light, 
Or  in  darkness  merge  the  night  ? 
Add  perfection  to  the  sphere, 
Fullness  to  the  rounded  year  ? 
Chiefdom  to  the  sea  declare, 
Freedom  to  the  ranging  air  ? 

There  is  beauty  past  the  power 
Of  the  earth  or  skies  to  dower ; 
There  is  joy  no  ministrants 
Can  by  fondest  skill  enhance  ; 
There  is  pain  too  keen  to  feel 
Wounding  point  of  driven  steel. 
Who  can  siege  the  souls  that  dwell 
In  Sleep's  meshy  citadel  ? 
Who  to  Love's  estate  can  add 
More  than  Love  hath  ever  had, 


28  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

Or  from  one  Great  Vast  withhold 
What  drew  thither  from  of  old,  — 
Stint  the  hunger-bitten  rage 
That  devours  from  age  to  age  ? 


A   FAR  CRY  TO   HEAVEN 

WHAT  !  dost  thou  pray  that  the  outgone  tide  be 
rolled  back  on  the  strand, 

The  flame  be  rekindled  that  mounted  away  from 
the  smouldering  brand, 

The  past-summer  harvest  flow  golden  through 
stubble-lands  naked  and  sere, 

The  winter-gray  woods  upgather  and  quicken  the 
leaves  of  last  year  ?  — 

Thy  prayers  are  as  clouds  in  a  drouth ;  regard 
less,  unfruitful,  they  roll ; 

For  this,  that  thou  prayest  vain  things,  't  is  a  far 
cry  to  Heaven,  my  soul,  — 
Oh,  a  far  cry  to  Heaven ! 

Thou  dreamest  the  word  shall  return,  shot  arrow- 
like  into  the  air, 

The  wound  in  the  breast  where  it  lodged  be 
balmed  and  closed  for  thy  prayer, 

The  ear  of  the  dead  be  unsealed,  till  thou  whis 
per  a  boon  once  denied, 

The  white  hour  of  life  be  restored,  that  passed 
thee  unprized,  undescried  !  — 


A   FIRE   OPAL  29 

Thy  prayers  are  as  runners  that  faint,  that  fail, 

within  sight  of  the  goal, 
For  this,  that  thou  prayest  fond  things,  't  is  a  far 

cry  to  Heaven,  my  soul,  — 
Oh,  a  far  cry  to  Heaven  ! 

And  cravest  thou  fondly  the  quivering  sands  shall 

be  firm  to  thy  feet, 
The  brackish  pool  of  the  waste  to  thy  lips  be 

made  wholesome  and  sweet  ? 
And  cravest  thou  subtly  the  bane  thou  desirest,  be 

wrought  to  thy  good, 
As  forth  from  a  poisonous  flower  a  bee  conveyeth 

safe  food  ? 
For  this,  that  thou  prayest  ill  things,  thy  prayers 

are  an  anger-rent  scroll ; 
The  chamber  of  audit  is  closed,  —  't  is  a  far  cry 

to  Heaven,  my  soul,  — 
Oh,  a  far  cry  to  Heaven ! 


A  FIRE   OPAL 

IBIS  dwells  in  thee  and  throws 
Rays  of  leaf-green  and  of  rose, 
Limpid  amber  courseth  through 
Violet  glooms  of  fading  hue. 

Opal,  well  surnamed  of  fire, 
If  some  stranger  should  inquire 


30  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

Whence  thy  swift  caprices  came,  — 
Morn-mist  closing  evening-flame,  — 
Do  thou  kindling  answer  bring, 
Many-passioned  lambent  thing ! 
Say,  with  cosmic  throe  was  born 
All  thy  life  of  love  and  scorn, 
Yet  not  chance  but  deathless  law 
Bred  thy  beauty  from  a  flaw. 
Speak  thou,  too,  with  perfect  art, 
For  wild  Genius'  burning  heart, 
Whose  perfection  springs,  like  thine, 
From  some  touch  of  scath  divine. 


SILVER  AND   GOLD 

FAREWELL,  my  little  sweetheart, 

Now  fare  you  well  and  free ; 
I  claim  from  you  no  promise, 

You  claim  no  vows  from  me. 
The  reason  why  ?  —  the  reason 

Right  well  we  can  uphold  — 
I  have  too  much  of  silver, 

And  you  've  too  much  of  gold  ! 

A  puzzle,  this,  to  worldlings, 
Whose  love  to  lucre  flies, 

Who  think  that  gold  to  silver 
Should  count  as  mutual  prize  ! 

But  I  'm  not  avaricious, 

And  you  're  not  sordid-souled  ; 


^  ONE'S  AGE  TO  ONE'S  YOUTH   31 

I  have  too  much  of  silver, 

And  you  've  too  much  of  gold. 

Upon  our  heads  the  reason 

Too  plainly  can  be  seen  : 
I  am  the  Winter's  bond-slave, 

You  are  the  Summer's  queen ; 
Too  few  the  years  you  number, 

Too  many  I  have  told ; 
I  have  too  much  of  silver, 

And  you  've  too  much  of  gold. 

You  have  the  rose  for  token, 

I  have  dry  leaf  and  rime  ; 
I  have  the  sobbing  vesper, 

You,  morning  bells  at  chime. 
I  would  that  I  were  younger, 

(Yet  you  grew  never  old)  — 
Would  I  had  less  of  silver, 

But  you  no  less  of  gold  ! 


IN  ONE'S  AGE  TO  ONE'S  YOUTH 

LISTEN,  thou  child  I  used  to  be  ! 

I  know  what  thou  didst  fret  to  know  — 
Knowledge  thou  couldst  not  lure  to  thee, 

Whatever  bribe  thou  wouldst  bestow. 
That  knowledge  but  a  waymark  plants 
Along  the  road  of  ignorance. 


32  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

Listen,  thou  child  I  used  to  be  ! 

I  am  enlarged  where  thou  wert  bound, 
Though  vaunting  still  that  thou  wast  free, 

And  lord  of  thine  own  pleasure  crowned. 
True  freedom  heeds  a  hidden  stress, 
Whereby  desire  to  range  grows  less. 

Listen,  thou  child  I  used  to  be ! 

Unmoved  I  meet  thy  fear  of  old, 
Where  thou,  but  masked  with  bravery, 

Didst  ever  charge  thyself,  Be  bold  ! 
True  courage  owns  a  dread  extreme  — 
Led  blind  through  the  blind  battle's  scheme  ! 

Listen,  thou  child  I  used  to  be  ! 

I  love,  I  serve  with  proffered  veins, 
Where  thou  demandest  praise  thy  fee, 

And  grateful  solace  for  thy  pains. 
True  love  and  service  do  but  win 
That  I  may  more  exceed  therein. 

Listen,  thou  child  I  used  to  be ! 

My  soul  to  wrath  'gainst  wrong  is  used, 
Where  thy  rash  combat  utterly 

The  doer  and  the  deed  confused. 
Right  wrath  the  deed  stabs  soon  or  late, 
The  doer  spares,  his  deed  to  hate. 

Listen,  thou  child  I  used  to  be  ! 

Unproud  I  move,  and  yet  unbowed, 


THE  SHADOW-SELF  33 

Where  thou  wast  fed  with  vanity, 

Thy  chief  est  pride  —  thou  wast  not  proud ! 
True  lowliness  forgets  its  state, 
And  equal  trains  with  small  or  great. 

Listen,  thou  child  I  used  to  be  ! 

I  am  what  thy  dream-wandering  sense 
Did  shape,  and  thy  fresh  will  decree, 

Yet  all  with  subtle  difference : 
Where  heaven's  arc  did  seem  to  end, 
Still  on  and  on  fair  fields  extend. 

Yet  listen,  child  I  used  to  be  ! 

Nothing  of  thine  I  dare  despise, 
Nor  passion,  deed,  nor  fantasy  ; 

For  lo  !  the  soul's  far  years  shall  rise 
And  with  unripeness  charge  this  hour 
Would  boast  o'er  thine  its  riper  power. 


THE  SHADOW-SELF 

AT  morning-tide  the  traveler  westward  bound 
Before  him  sees  a  lengthened  shadow  run ; 

At  noon  it  shrinks  beneath  him  on  the  ground ; 
Unmarked,  it  rearward  moves  at  set  of  sun. 

A  juggling  shadow-self  the  youth  pursues, 
And  questions  with  a  fond  and  curious  mind  ; 

This  shade  the  man  in  prime  subdues, 
In  mellow  age  has  cast  it  far  behind. 


34  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

A   CHANT   OF  THE   FOUGHT   FIELD 

Nunc  dimittis. 

As  one  who  under  evening  skies 
Upon  a  fought  field  stricken  lies 
(Unknown  for  stains  of  blood  and  grime) 
Is  fain  the  mortal  shaft  to  draw 
And  let  life  issue  through  the  flaw, 
Even  so  am  I,  and  even  so, 
Unhand  me,  Time,  and  let  me  go  — 
Unhand  me,  Time  ! 

Upon  his  clogged  and  languid  sense 
Vague  cries  are  borne  —  he  heeds  not  whence, 
Nor  if  they  utter  cheer  sublime, 
Or  fill  the  air  with  craven  moan ; 
His  spirit's  fire  is  all  unblown  ; 
Even  so  is  mine  —  so  faint,  so  low ; 
Unhand  me,  Time,  and  let  me  go  — 
Unhand  me,  Time  ! 

For  heaven-truth  my  sword  I  drew, 
With  anger  keen  I  did  pursue 
Not  the  frail  worker  but  the  crime 
He  framed  in  glooming  ignorance. 
Now  let  who  may  lift  sword  and  lance, 
Or  let  the  rust  upon  them  grow  ! 
Unhand  me,  Time,  and  let  me  go  — 
Unhand  me,  Time ! 


THE  RIVAL   OF  HEARTS-EASE  35 

Or  well  or  ill  if  I  have  wrought, 
My  deed  was  mated  with  my  thought, 
As  bell  with  bell  in  tuneful  chime. 
All  things  that  fall  to  man's  dear  lot 
I  did  receive,  and  faltered  not ; 
Quick  come  the  last !   and  even  so, 
Unhand  me,  Time,  and  let  me  go  — 
Unhand  me,  Time ! 

A  dream  it  was  !     All  that  hath  been 
Now  lapseth  like  some  passioned  scene 
Played  by  a  well-deceiving  mime, 
Who  most  of  all  himself  deceives, 
And,  waking  up,  regretless  leaves. 
I  reach  for  substance  past  the  show  — 
Unhand  me,  Time,  and  let  me  go  — 
Unhand  me,  Time ! 


THE  RIVAL   OF  HEART'S-EASE 

I  DREAMED  you  lay  along  the  river-bank, 
And  I  above  you,  yet  unknown  to  you, 

Began  to  pluck  the  wood-flowers,  rank  on  rank, 
All  delicate  with  dew. 

And  all  were  white  save  one  with  rosy  stain, 
That  nodded  toward  me  in  the  gentle  breeze  ; 

In  dreamland  it  was  called  Heart's-Pleasant-Pain, 
The  rival  of  Heart's-Ease. 


36  IN  DIVERS  TONES 

With  these  I  softly  crept  along  the  bank, 

And   thought   to    shed  them  one  by  one  on 
you  — 

But  you  were  gone !     Down  in  dismay  I  sank  ; 
My  flowers  away  I  threw. 

Away  I  threw  them  all  save  only  one  ; 

'T  is  here  —  the  blossom  with  the  rosy  stain  ; 
And  wondrous  well,  though  hidden  from  the  sun, 

It  thrives  —  Heart's-Pleasant-Pain  ! 


ON  THE   EVE   OF  SLEEP 

WHAT  is  softer  than  two  snowflakes  meeting 

In  a  windless  fall  of  snow  ? 
What  is  lighter  than  a  down-ball  sinking 

On  a  still  stream's  polished  flow  ? 
Smoother  than  the  liquid  circle  spreading 

From  the  swallow's  touch-and-go  ?  — 
Oh,  softer,  lighter,  smoother,  is  the  first  approach 

of  Sleep  ! 

(Yet  guard  us  in  that  moment,  lest  thy  boon  we 
may  not  keep !) 

What  is  stiller  than  two  blossoms  kissing 

Charily  with  petal-tips  ? 
Sweeter  than  the  dewdrop  that  their  kissing 

Doth  unsphere  —  and  down  it  slips  ? 
What  is  dimmer  than  the  night-moth  groping 

For  the  lily's  nectared  lips  ?  — 


ON  THE  EVE  OF  SLEEP  37 

Oh,  stiller,  sweeter,  dimmer,  is  the  first  approach 

of  Sleep  ! 
(Yet  guard  us  in  that  moment,  lest  thy  boon  we 

may  not  keep !) 

What  is  subtler  than  the  clues  that  tighten 
Round  the  dancing  midge's  wings  ? 

Shyer  than  the  bird  its  nest  concealing, 
As  aloof  it  flits  and  sings  ? 

Closer  than  the  poppy-leaf-lined  chamber 
Where  the  lone  bee's  cradle  swings  ?  — 

Oh,  subtler,  shyer,  closer,  is  the  first  approach  of 
Sleep  ! 

(Yet  guard  us  in  that  moment  ere  we  reach  thy 
safest  deep  !) 

What  is  stranger  than  the  moonlight  mingling 

With  the  red  fire  of  the  west  ? 
Wilder  than  an  Amazonian  forest 

Where  no  foot  the  mould  hath  pressed  ? 
Dearer  than  the  heart's  most  secret  brooding 

On  the  face  it  loveth  best  ?  — 
Oh,  stranger,  wilder,  dearer,  is  the  first  approach 

of  Sleep ! 

(Oh,  guard  us  in  that  moment,  lest  we  waver  back 
and  weep !) 


38  IN  DIVERS   TONES 


THE   ARABIAN   BIRD 

"WHERE  hast  thou  been  in  the  dreams  of  the 
night, 

Thou,  my  delight  ?  " 
"  Over  the  seas  and  over  the  sands 

To  the  Ancient  of  Lands  !  " 
"  What  hast  thou  seen  that  thy  lips  are  so  pale  ? 

Tell  me  thy  tale." 
"  Nothing  I  saw  but  a  bird  in  a  palm  — 

All  the  air  was  calm." 
"  Rare  is  a  bird  in  a  desert  tree  ; 
Did  it  sing  for  thee  ?  " 
"  Yes,  but  the  song  thou  conldst  not  hear 

With  thine  untaught  ear. 
Under  the  tree  my  spirit  stood, 

Fed  on  sweet  food  ! 
Measureless  joy  in  the  warbled  note 
Of  that  soft,  smooth  throat : 
A  thousand  may  hear  —  to  each  unknown 

For  each  listens  alone !  " 
"  Thou  hast  been  where  a  mortal  may  not  go  — 

By  thine  eyes  I  know !  " 
"  Fear  me  not,  though  I  stir  not  the  air, 

And  my  footsteps  spare 
The  weakest  blade  of  the  sleeping  grass, 

As  I  lightly  pass  — 

For  I  died,  I  died  at  the  turn  of  the  night, 
I,  thy  delight!" 


DREAMS  39 


DREAMS 

As  I  came  through  the  Valley  Sleep 
(Upon  each  side  a  frowning  steep), 
A  dream  my  weighted  steps  o'ertook  : 
"  I  am  the  Fear  thou  wouldst  not  brook 
Through  all  the  hours  of  light, 
But  thrust  my  face  from  sight, 
My  whisper  from  thine  ear ; 
Now  close  on  thee  I  wait,  — 

Thy  secret  Fear,  — 
And  I  foreshadow  fate  !  " 

As  I  came  through  the  Valley  Sleep, 
Where  singing  waters  hidden  creep. 
A  dream  arose  and  kissed  my  brow : 
"  I  am  the  Heart's  Desire,  whom  thou 
Wouldst  lift  no  voice  to  greet, 
Nor  own  me  conquering-sweet, 
A  mounting  cordial  fire  ; 
I  am  thy  bosom-mate,  — 

Deep  Heart's  Desire,  — 
And  I  foreshadow  fate  !  " 

Whoso  comes  through  the  Valley  Sleep, 
Whether  he  wake  to  laugh  or  weep, 
Meets  with  no  herald  from  afar, 
No  warning  gleam  of  natal  star  ; 
But,  in  her  regal  place, 


40  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

And  with  no  masking  face, 
Unhood winked  and  unbought, 
Most  pure,  inviolate, 

The  lord  of  thought,  — 
The  Soul  foreshadows  fate  ! 


EXPIATION 

THOU  repentest,  and  thy  tears 
Flaw  for  those  misfeatured  years 
That,  with  old  reproach  and  taunt, 
Thine  amended  footsteps  haunt. 
But  thou  mayest  not,  in  sooth, 
Placate  thine  aggrieved  Youth. 

Thou  repentest,  and  wouldst  heap, 
From  thy  bin  and  coffer  deep, 
Store  upon  their  nakedness 
Whom  thou  spurnedst  all  pitiless. 
But  thou  mayest  not  find  peace 
In  late  doles  of  thine  increase. 

Thou  repentest,  and  wouldst  yield 
All  the  trophies  of  the  field 
Where  a  great  heart  vailed  to  thee 
That  thy  fame  upreared  might  be. 
But  thou  mayest  not  rebuild 
What  thy  lustier  growth  has  killed, 


EXPIATION  41 

Thou  repentest,  and  thy  breast 
Heaves  for  one  that  (well  at  rest) 
Once  thy  crossed  or  wanton  will 
Could  with  cruel  tremor  fill. 
But  thou  mayest  not  confer 
Aught  upon  that  slumberer. 

Thou  repentest !  —  dost  thou  deem 
Heaven  is  lent  unto  thy  scheme 
That  thou  mayest  now  undo 
What  thy  writhing  heartstrings  rue, 
And,  with  dealings  sooth  and  kind, 
Of  their  aim  thy  Furies  blind  ? 

Thou  repentest,  and  wouldst  press 
Forward  to  a  sweet  redress. 
Ay  ;  but  if  a  God  prefer 
In  thy  wakened  breast  should  stir 
Grief  to  keep  thy  purpose  pure, 
What  for  thee  but  to  endure  ? 

Thou  repentest !     Well,  repent ! 
Urge  naught  else,  but  be  content 
That  the  callous  chord  did  break, 
That  thy  heart  at  length  could  ache. 
Ache  !  thou  heart  long  proof  to  pain, 
Though  thy  prayer  no  God  constrain. 


42  IN  DIVERS   TONES 


LETHE 

REMEMBRANCE  followed  him  into  the  skies. 

They    met.     Awhile   mute    Sorrow   held   him 

thrall. 
Then  broke  he  forth  in  spirit  words  and  sighs  : 

"  Great  was  my  sin  !  but  at  my  contrite  call 
Came  pardon  and  the  hope  of  Paradise  ; 

If  this  be  Heaven,  thy  blessing  on  me  fall !  " 
She   looked.     Peace   filled   her   unremembering 
eyes ; 

She  knew  him  not  —  she  had  forgotten  all. 


FRAGMENT 


DEXTROUS  the  arts  that  Cruelty  commands. 
There  is  a  fierce-eyed  hunter  of  the  crag, 
Who,  marking  from  on  high  his  feathered  prey, 
Descending  in  an  unseen  spiral  slow, 
Strikes  talons  through  the  helpless  quarry's  wings, 
And  steers  them  onward  in  unerring  flight, 
But  sheathes  his  own,  and  rests  in  silent  air 
Till  borne  to  that  rough  cliff  and  shaggy  nest, 
Where  waits  with  clamors  shrill   an  hungering 

brood, 

Fed  savage  with  the  warm  bright  drops  that  ooze 
From  many  a  pierced  throat  of  sweetest  song ! 


JUSTICE  AND  MERCY  43 

Dextrous  the  arts  that  Cruelty  commands. 
Thy  hand  upon  my  hand  driveth  the  steel 
To  the  deep  place  of  life ;  yet  should  my  heart 
Forefeel  the  blow,  and  through  its  smotherings 

CIT> 

"  By  thee,  by  thee  am  I  dislodged,  unhoused, 
And  sent  abroad  upon  the  wintry  air !  " 
Then  wouldst  thou  answer  from  a  subtle  soul, 
"  Nay,  see  !  't  is  thou  thyself  —  thus  —  giv'st  the 

blow!" 


JUSTICE  AND   MERCY 

A  WIND  that  had  wandered  all  winter  through 
In  at  the  casement  with  purport  blew : 
"  Place  not  in  human  tribunals  thy  trust 
Till  Justice  be  merciful,  Mercy  be  just." 

The  householder  rose  and  muffled  with  care 
The  crack  which  admitted  that  free-lancing  air, 
Lest   its  song  should    offend  the  Twain  at   his 

hearth  — 
Guests  of  a  night,  and  aliens  by  birth ! 

Needless  such  care,  for  the  one  all  serene 
Still  rubbed  his  soft  hands,  the  whitest  e'er  seen, 
The  other  pored  over  the  Book  of  the  Law  : 
So,  unmarked  passed  the  voice  at  the  casement's 
flaw. 


44  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

But  the  Wind  of  the  Spirit,  invincibly  clear, 
The  burden  resumed  in  the  householder's  ear 
"  Place  not  in  human  tribunals  thy  trust 
Till  Justice  be  merciful,  Mercy  be  just !  " 


BROADWAY 


BETWEEN  these  frowning  granite  steeps 

The  human  river  onward  sweeps  ; 

And  here  it  moves  with  torrent  force, 

And  there  it  slacks  its  heady  course : 

But  what  controls  its  variant  flow 

A  keener  wit  than  mine  must  show, 

Who  cast  myself  upon  the  tide, 

And  merging  with  its  current  glide,  — 

A  drop,  an  atom,  of  the  whole 

Of  its  great  bulk  and  wandering  soul. 

O  curbless  river,  savage  stream, 
Thou  art  my  wilderness  extreme, 
Where  I  may  move  as  free,  as  lone, 
As  in  the  waste  with  wood  o'ergrown, 
And  breedings  of  as  brave  a  strain 
May  here  unchallenged  entertain, 
Whether  meridian  light  display 
The  swift  routine  of  current  day, 
Or  jet  electric,  diamond-clear, 
Convoke  a  world  of  glamour  here. 


BROADWAY  45 

Yet  when  of  solitude  I  tire, 
Speak  comradeship  to  my  desire, 

0  most  companionable  tide, 
Where  all  to  all  are  firm  allied, 

And  each  hath  countenance  from  the  rest, 
Although  the  tie  be  unconfessed ! 

II 

1  muse  upon  this  river's  brink ; 
I  listen  long  ;  I  strive  to  think 
What  cry  goes  forth,  of  many  blent, 
And  by  that  cry  what  thing  is  meant,  — 
What  simple  legend  of  old  fate 

Man's  voice,  here  inarticulate, 

From  out  this  dim  and  strange  uproar 

Still  heaves  upon  the  skyey  shore  ! 

Amid  this  swift,  phantasmal  stream 
Sometimes  I  move  as  in  a  dream  ; 
Then  wondrous  quiet,  for  a  space, 
The  clanging  tumult  will  displace  ; 
And  toil's  hard  gride  and  pleasure's  hum 
No  longer  to  my  ear  may  come  : 
A  pantomimic,  haunted  throng 
Fareth  in  silence  deep  and  strong, 
And  seems  in  summoned  haste  to  urge, 
Half  prescient,  towards  a  destined  verge ! 

The  river  flows,  —  unwasting  flows  ; 
Nor  less  nor  more  its  volume  grows, 


46  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

From  source  to  sea  still  onward  rolled, 
As  days  are  shed  and  years  are  told  ; 
And  yet,  so  mutable  its  wave, 
That  no  man  twice  therein  may  lave, 
But,  ere  he  can  return  again, 
Himself  shall  subtle  change  sustain ; 
Since  more  and  more  each  life  must  be 
Tide-troubled  by  the  drawing  sea. 


A  CHRISTOPHER  OF  THE 
SHENANDOAH 


ISLAND    FORD,    SNICKER'S    GAP,    JULY    18, 

1864 


TOLD   BY   THE    ORDERLY 

MUTE  he  sat  in  the  saddle  —  mute  'midst  our  full 

acclaim, 
As  three  times   over  we  gave  to  the  mountain 

echo  his  name. 
Then,  "  But  I  could  n't  do  less  !  "  in  a  murmur 

remonstrant  came. 

This  was  the  deed   his  spirit  set  and  his  hand 

would  not  shun, 
When  the  vale  of  the  Shenandoah  had  lost  the 

glow  of  the  sun, 


A   CHRISTOPHER   OF  THE  SHENANDOAH   47 

And  the  evening  cloud  and  the  battle  smoke  were 
blending  in  one. 

Retreating  and  ever  retreating,  the  bank  of  the 

river  we  gained, 
Hope  of  the  field  was  none,  and  choice  but  of 

flight  remained, 
When  there  at  the  brink  of  the  ford  his  horse  he 

suddenly  reined. 

For  his  vigilant  eye  had  marked  where,  close  by 

the  oozy  marge, 
Half-parted  its  moorings,  there  lay  a  battered 

and  oarless  barge. 
"  Quick  !  gather  the  wounded  in  !  "  and  the  flying 

stayed  at  his  charge. 

They  gathered  the  wounded  in  whence  they  fell 

by  the  river-bank, 
Lapped  on  the  gleaming  sand,  or  aswoon,  'mid 

the  rushes  dank  ; 
And  they  crowded   the   barge  till  its  sides  low 

down  in  the  water  sank. 

The  river  was  wide,  was  deep,  and  heady  the 

current  flowed, 
A  burdened  and  oarless   craft !  —  straight  into 

the  stream  he  rode 
By  the  side  of  the  barge,  and  drew  it  along  with 

its  moaning  load. 


48  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

A  moaning  and  ghastly  load  —  the  wounded  — 
the  dying  —  the  dead  ! 

For  ever  upon  their  traces  followed  the  whistling 
lead, 

Our  bravest  the  mark,  yet  unscathed  and  un 
daunted,  he  pushed  ahead. 

Alone  ?     Save   for   one   that   from   love   of    his 

leader  or  soldierly  pride 
(Hearing  his  call  for  aid,  and  seeing  that  none 

replied), 
Plunged  and  swam  by  the  crazy  craft  on   the 

other  side. 

But  Heaven !  what  weary  toil !   for  the  river  is 

wide,  is  deep ; 
The  current  is  swift,  and  the  bank  on  the  further 

side  is  steep. 
'T  is  reached  at  last,  and  a  hundred  of  ours  to 

the  rescue  leap. 

Oh,  they  cheered  as  he  rose  from  the  stream  and 
the  water-drops  flowed  away  ! 

"  But  I  could  n't  do  less  !  "  in  the  silence  that  fol 
lowed  we  heard  him  say  ; 

Then  the  wounded  cheered,  and  the  swooning 
awoke  in  the  barge  where  they  lay. 

And  I  ?  —  Ah,  well,  I  swam  by  the  barge  on  the 
other  side ; 


THE  PRISONER  OF  THE  STANSINO       49 

But  an  orderly  goes  wherever  his  leader  chooses 

to  ride. 
Come  life  or  come  death  I  could  n't  do  less  than 

follow  his  guide. 

THE   PRISONER  OF  THE   STANSINO 

The  Stansino  was  a  small  cavern  imbedded  in  solid 
masonry.  In  the  centre  revolved  a  machine  which,  if  the 
cramped  prisoner  chanced  to  fall  upon  it,  carried  him  un 
der  and  dropped  him  into  a  vault  beneath,  swarming-  with 
rats.  This  inhuman  invention  was  a  feature  of  the  Met- 
ternich  tyranny  in  Italy. 


YES,  still  bloom  our  Tuscan  meadows, 

Smiles  the  azure  overspread  ; 
Fresh  winds  slake  the  thirst  of  Summer, 

Nightly  dews  are  ceaseless  shed. 
Vine  and  fig-tree  heed  their  season, 

Yielding  still  their  rich  increase ; 
And  the  olive  drops  her  burden, 

All  her  sleek  leaves  whispering  peace. 
God  of  griefless,  smiling  Nature, 

God  of  blessing  and  of  ban, 
Wherefore  let  thine  other  creatures 

Mock  thy  crown  creation,  man  ? 
Oh,  the  olive's  fruit  should  wither, 

Blight  consume  the  merry  grape, 
And  a  subtle  fire  glide  snakelike, 

Till  the  tortured  earth  should  gape  ! 


50  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

And  the  noontide  should  be  darkened, 

And  the  air  with  tongues  be  thick  ; 
Cursing,  all,  the  name  of  Austria 

And  the  name  of  Metternich:  ! 
Ay,  the  Tuscan  knows  to  curse  them, 

Curses  from  the  earth's  green  plain, 
Curses  in  yon  smiling  heaven, 

(Void  man's  voice  returns  again!) 
Curses  from  the  earth's  deep  bosom, 

Where  forgotten  lips  draw  breath  [ 
Ah,  if  death-in-life  Thou  suff  rest, 

Make  such  curses  life-in-death  ; 
So  the  grave-pit  and  Stansino, 

Plainly  heard  where  fail  the  quick, 
Shall  consummate  terror  fasten 

On  the  soul  of  Metternich ! 

n 

In  our  Virgil's  fabled  Orcus 

Runs  a  wheel  with  ceaseless  gyrer 
Bearing  round  the  wretch  Ixion 

Clinging  to  its  fervid  tire. 
In  the  grim  Stansino's  centre 

Runs  a  wheel  with  ceaseless  gyre, 
Dipping  to  a  nether  cavern 

And  a  depth  of  gloom  more  dire. 
Cramped  upon  the  narrow  ledging, 

One  misstep  your  fate  must  seal ; 
Thus  you  read  the  modern  version 

Of  Ixion  and  the  wheel. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  THE  STANSINO   51 

Only  our  so  gracious  Minos 

(Mark  !)  commutes  the  wretch's  woe, 
Drops  him  from  the  giddy  torture 

To  a  furtive  swarm  below  ! 
Hunger's  keen-eyed  gnawing  vassals 

Straightway  fall  to  their  repast ! 
Presto  !     Where,  now,  is  Ixion  ? 

May  his  soul  find  peace  at  last ! 

in 

He  who  died  but  yester-morning 

Buried  lay,  like  clod  to  clod, 
For  a  decade  and  a  lustrum, 

While  our  feet  above  him  trod  : 
Vain  to  guess  how  life  persisted 

On  a  pittance-crust  and  drink  — 
How  a  coign  was  found  for  slumber 

On  the  vorticed  cavern's  brink  — 
If  more  slow  to  waste,  life's  current 

Through  his  veins  lymphatic  crept ; 
Or  if  Heaven  for  this  preserved  him, 

To  inflame  our  wrath,  that  slept ! 
Fifteen  years  of  dawns  unnoted  — — 

Fifteen  years  of  night  on  night ; 
Buried,  yet  not  slain  of  darkness, 

But  of  God's  dear,  common  light, 
If  ye  trust  our  word,  who  saw  him 

As  he  came  from  underground  ! 
Magistrate  and  priest  and  soldier 

Were  of  those  who  stood  around, 


52  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

Nor  were  wanting  doubters,  urging 

None  within  that  pit  could  live ; 
Wanting  not  were  women  bringing 

Food  and  wine  restorative  ; 
Piteous,  tearful,  no  more  doubting 

Than  the  three  who  stood  at  dawn 
On  the  mount  of  holy  burial, 

Ere  they  knew  the  Sleeper  gone. 

IV 

Ah,  the  sun  on  yester-morning 

Seemed  a  sentient  glow  to  shed, 
To  atone  for  man's  late  justice, 

And  restore  the  living  dead. 
Backward  slides  the  heavy  panel, 

Slow,  as  loth  to  yield  its  prize, 
Sullen  gapes  a  square  of  darkness, 

Faced  by  gloomless  morning  skies. 
Faint,  as  out  of  depths  unfathomed, 

Comes  a  voice,  not  sigh  nor  moan, 
More  like  caverned  wind's  repining 

Than  like  human  sorrow's  tone  ! 
Up  they  draw  him,  darkling,  drooping  • 

Shade  of  man,  uncouth,  aghast ! 
In  an  instant  he  has  broken 

From  the  arms  about  him  cast ; 
With  a  shriek  leaps  forward,  sunward, 

Back  he  drops  upon  the  ground  ;   .  . 
Touch  and  listen,  listen  closely ; 

Neither  pulse  nor  breath  is  found. 


ARRIA  53 

Like  a  deadly  bolt,  the  sunlight 

Burst  his  heart ;  so  all  believe. 
God  !  were  Austria's  sun  as  potent, 

One  black  heart 't  would  straightway  cleave  ! 

ARRIA 

"  P./ETUS,  my  master  sends  death,  but  thereto  ad- 

deth  this  grace,  — 
Choose  thou  the  hour  and  the  hand  that  shall 

drive  the  steel  to  its  place." 
Thus    spake   a   Dacian   slave,   noiseless  retiring 

apace. 
Blanched  were  the  lips  of  Arria. 

Anon  their  rich  color  returned  in  a  threefold  re 
surgent  wave. 

"  Death  must  thou  have,  O  my  dearest,  yet  not 
by  the  hand  of  a  slave ! 

Lordly  give  back  to  the  gods  the  lordly  gift  that 

they  gave  !  " 
Smiled  the  red  lips  of  Arria. 

(Mark  !  not  the  starveling  of  life,  not  the  scorner, 

is  freest  from  fear  ; 
Hearts   richest  in  love  are  foremost  to  rush  on 

the  foeman's  spear ; 
And    the    keen  accolade  that  maketh  immortal 

falls  sacred  and  dear 
As  the  kiss  from  the  lips  of  Arria.) 


54  IN  DIVERS   TONES 

And  yet  mused  the  knight;  for  who  would   not 

stay,  though  but  for  a  span, 
Ere  he  pass  to  the  untried  gods,  this  life  in  the 

known  frame  of  man  ? 
So  strong  through  his  veins  the  impact  of  years 

to  be  canceled  yet  ran,  — 
And  so  sweet  were  the  lips  of  Arria ! 

"  Now  death  or  craven  delaying  !  "  clear  rang  her 

silvery  note. 
"  Thou  wouldst  not  falter  in  choice,  thou,  ever  to 

honor  devote  !  " 
As  throbs  the  soft  breast  of  a  startled  dove,  so 

throbbed  her  soft  throat, 
Yet  firm  the  red  lips  of  Arria. 

With  the  dower  of  her  beauty  upon  her  she  stood 

in  his  wavering  sight ; 
A  true  Roman  wife,  he  beheld  her,  the  peer  of  a 

true  Roman  knight. 
"  Hast  thou  lost  the  old  way,  O  my  lord,   dost 

thou  need  one  to  set  thee  aright  ?  " 
Still  smiled  the  red  lips  of  Arria. 

And,  smiling,  she  laid  her  warm  hand  on  the 

steel  true-tempered  and  cold. 
"  This   were  the  way  !  "       (She  has  driven  the 

point  through  her  tunic's  white  fold  !) 
"  This  is  the  way,  —  none  other  ;  but,  Psetus,  it 

hurts  not  —  behold  !  "  — 
And  hushed  were  the  lips  of  Arria. 


ATYS  55 

Oh,  horror  !  oh,  pity  !  oh,  love  !     But  now  is  no 

moment  to  weep ; 
Let  the  bright  death,  from  her  heart  to  his  own, 

importunate  leap  ; 
Ay,  for  it  hurts  not  when  life  flitteth  forth  from 

its  cabinet  deep,  — 
Forth  to  the  soul  of  Arria ! 

One   touch   of   her  consecrate   lips,  one  instant 

above  her  he  stands  ; 
In   the   next   he  hath  caught   the   life-drinking 

blade  in  his  two  firm  hands. 
He  hath  tried  the  old  way,  —  the  old  way  that 

ever  mocked  tyrannous  bands,  — 
Now  forth  to  the  soul  of  Arria ! 


ATYS 

SWEET   are   the    sheltered,   nestling   vales    and 

plains  the  toil  of  man  has  crowned ; 
I  love  them  all,  but  more  I  love  the  lands  that 

know  not  tilth  nor  bound  — 
Waste  hills,  the  lordless  hills  eterne,  and  winds 

of  heaven  on  heavenward  ground ! 
Friendly  the  broad,  embracing  arms  of  Sylvan's 

oak  at  midday  hot, 
The    chestnut-groves    with   dropping   mast,    the 

fruited  orchard's  lawny  plot  ; 
But  these  too  long  delay  my  feet ;  I  leave  them, 

and  regret  them  not : 


56  IN  DIVERS   TONE 8 

I   heed   the  Mighty  Mother's    call,  far  up   the 
shaggy  mountain-side  ; 
With  her  let  me  abide, 
And  listen  to  divine 

Deep  breathings  from  the  mystic  trees  of  dark 
ling,  reminiscent  pine. 

Great  Rhea  goes  with  soft-foot  steeds ;  their  eyes 
are  quenchless,  sparkling  flame  ; 

The  hot  wilds  bore  and  bred  them  fierce,  yet  do 
they  pace  subdued  and  tame  ; 

No  lash,   no  rein,  controls  their  strength ;   she 
curbs  them  calling  them  by  name. 

Great  Rhea  goes  as  she  was  wont  (yet  now  by 
mortal  eyes  unseen), 

A  crown   of  turrets  on  her  head,  her  gaze  un- 
fathomed,  searching-keen. 

Her  gloomy  heralds  hasten  on,  to  rouse  the  for 
est  high  and  green  ; 

But  when  she  gains  the  summit  dark,  no  more 
they  urge  the  shrilling  strife 
Of  cymbal  and  of  fife  ; 
She  hushes  them  by  signs  — 

Hark !  Atys  sighing  in  his  sleep,  amid  the  mel 
ancholy  pines ! 

He  slumbers  in  some  fragrant  cell,  smooth-rocked 

between  the  earth  and  sky. 
Delicious  Summer  danced  and  sung,  Winter  with 

griding  tread  swept  by  ; 


ATYS  57 

These   could   not   rouse  him,  yet  a  dream   has 
power  to  make  him  start  and  sigh  ! 

Remembers    he   how   heaven    could   woo   when 
heaven  an  earthly  love  would  gain, 

How  goddess'  smiles  were  golden  days  and  god 
dess'  tears  were  mists  and  rain, 

When    Rhea,    with    large-gifting    hands,    would 
share  with  him  her  wide  domain  ? 

Nay !    he   but   sees  Pessinus'   flower,   by  stolen 
paths  through  kindly  glooms  ; 
For  him  her  fine  lip  blooms, 
Her  eye  with  love-light  shines  — 

Hark  !  Atys  singing  in  his  sleep,  amid  the  dim, 
melodious  pines ! 

He,  dreaming,   sings  the  maiden's  praise  —  ah, 

sorrow  !  soon  he  sings  no  more ! 
The  goddess  to  the  bridal  came  ;  in  each  dread 

hand  a  scourge  she  bore ; 
She  struck  with  fear   the   marriage-guests,  and 

smote  his  brain  with  madness  sore. 
His  tender  love  he  spurned,  he  fled  ;  up  rough, 

untrodden  steeps  he  fled  ; 
The  mountain-berry  was  his  food,  the  thinning 

turf  his  nightly  bed  ; 
And  airily  he  wove  of  leaves  a  crown  for  his  un- 

pitied  head. 
The  searcher  craftily  he  shunned  ;  yet  were  his 

footprints  crimson-traced 
Along  the  bitter  waste 


58  IN  DIVERS   TOXES 

Of  flints  and  thorny  spines  — 
Hark !    Atys   moaning   in   his    sleep,   amid   the 
many-wintered  pines  I 

The  rough-girt,  unimpassioned  trees  their  soften 
ing  hearts  did  then  unveil, 

And  close  the  frenzied  wanderer  round  ;  thence 
forward  never  did  they  fail, 

Responsive  to  his  tranced  thought,  to  breathe  the 
mournful,  moving  tale. 

And  therefore    when  we   mortals    come   among 
these  chanters  sombre-tressed, 

Our  mastered  spirits  flow  with  theirs,  and  are  by 
surging  moods  oppressed : 

We  hope,  exult  —  we  madden,  brood  —  and  now 
are  sorrowfully  blest ; 

No  murmur  from  his  cumbered  heart  but  wakes 
in  ours  a  fellow-strain  ; 
Our  own  most  secret  pain 
The  solemn  wood  divines  — 

Hark !     Atys    sobbing   in   his    sleep,    amid    the 
piteous,  rocking  pines  ! 

The  Mighty  Mother  bows  her  down  ;  she  answers 

him,  deep  sob  for  sob  ; 
She  lays  her  hand  upon  his  heart ;  she  feels,  she 

hails,  its  strengthening  throb  ! 
But  from  his  lips  what  words  are  these,  that  thus 

her  cheek  of  color  rob  ? 


ATYS  59 

She  turns  her  face,  withdraws  her   hand ;    the 

seals  of  sleep  she  will  not  break. 
Undying  youth,  immortal  dream,  for  love  a  for- 

tressed  mansion  make ; 
Were  slumber  loosed,  the  dream  remains  ;  then, 

wherefore  should  she  bid  him  wake  ? 
O  Mighty  Mother,  come  away,  since  not  to  thee, 

in  power  arrayed, 

But  to  the  Phrygian  maid, 
His  soul,  released,  inclines  — 
Leave  Atys  murmuring  in  his  sleep,  amid  the 

old,  dark-memoried  pines ! 


II 

SOUTHFOLD  AND  THE  FLOCK 


SOUTHFOLD 

A   PARABLE    OF   LITTLE    STRANGERS 

SOUTHFOLD  ?  only  this  I  know  : 

When  you  've  passed  a  world  of  snow, 

And  one  last  great  ridge  is  crossed, 

Then  farewell  to  snow  and  frost ! 

On  a  sudden  spring  's  begun  ! 

Steady  shines  the  loving  sun 

On  the  fields  that  southward  run, 

On  the  walls  and  broad  low  roof 

That  need  not  be  winter-proof, 

'For  the  winter  keeps  aloof  ; 

Or,  if  any  drift  of  snow 

From  the  great  white  ridge  should  blow, 

It  but  makes  a  tinkling  rill 

Falling,  falling,  falling  still 

From  the  eaves,  while  all  around 

Greener  grows  the  sunny  ground. 

I  have  heard  a  traveler  say, 
Thither  every  tender  stray, 
Every  silly  straggler,  goes. 
Yet  the  way  it  never  knows 
(By  some  kind  enchantment  toled) 


64  SOUTHFOLD  AND   THE  FLOCK 

To  the  happy  fields  and  fold. 
There  the  lambs  are  that  were  born 
On  a  January  morn, 
And  the  birds  that  fledged  so  late 
None  would  pity  them  and  wait 
Till  their  wings  would  bear  them  right 
On  the  long,  long  autumn  flight. 
There  the  wood-bees  are  whose  home 
With  its  store  of  honeycomb 
By  the  chopper  was  laid  low ; 
Houseless,  they  were  forced  to  go 
Out  upon  the  wintry  air  ! 
And  the  willow-moth  is  there, 
That  mistook  the  time  of  year, 
Waking  in  December  drear, 
When  the  cutting  winds  were  keen. 
There  the  apple-tree  is  seen, 
That  each  autumn  dreams  of  May, 
And  throws  out  a  blooming  spray  ; 
And  the  violet  that  peeps  forth 
To  be  frowned  on  by  the  North. 

These  and  many  more  beside 
In  that  blessed  place  abide ; 
But  the  sweetest  creature  there 
(So  the  traveler  did  declare) 
Is  the  child  that  knows  no  love 
Save  the  Father's  from  above. 
Thither  long  ago  he  came, 
Lost,  and  knowing  not  his  name  ; 


SOUTHFOLD  65 

There  were  teardrops  to  be  kissed 
From  the  eyes  whose  light  none  missed  ; 
Now  he  has  himself  forgot 
All  the  sorrow  in  his  lot. 

There  the  time  is  early  May  — 

And  the  time  is  morning  day. 

There  the  late  bird  tries  its  wings, 

And  its  young  song  blithely  sings ; 

And  the  winter  lambs  are  glad, 

Rosy-tinged  in  new  wool  clad. 

And  the  wood-bees'  murmuring  seems 

Like  the  music  heard  in  dreams ; 

And  the  willow-moth  is  fanned 

Up  and  down  the  flowery  land, 

While  the  apple-tree  holds  all 

Her  fair  flowers  (which  never  fall), 

And  the  violet  need  not  fear 

Though  it  bloom  the  whole  round  year ; 

And  the  child  that  knows  no  love 

Save  the  Father's  from  above, 

Has  a  heart  of  love  to  give 

All  that  in  the  fold  do  live  — 

All  that  like  himself  were  lost 

Till  the  great  white  ridge  was  crossed. 


Little  Song,  thyself  a  stray, 

Join  the  troop  that,  night  and  day, 

Unobserved  do  thither  go  — 


66  SOUTHFOLD  AND   THE  FLOCK 

'T  is  the  only  liome  thou  'It  know  ! 
There  in  mellow  trills  and  laughters, 
Haunt  the  scented  pine-wood  rafters 
And  the  broad  low  roof  that  cover 
Little  strangers  the  world  over. 


CHILD   AND   POET 


OH,  the  child  a  poet  is ! 
Poet's  pleasures  too  are  his ; 
Would  he  had  the  art  to  tell 
What  he  sees  and  hears  so  well,  — 
How  the  hills  so  love  the  sky 
In  its  tender  haze  they  lie ; 
How  the  sky  so  loves  the  streams, 
Every  pool  has  heavenly  dreams. 
He  can  guess  what  says  the  breeze, 
Sighing,  singing,  through  the  trees ; 
What  the  sunbeam,  what  the  rain, 
Or  the  smoke's  slow-mounting  train ; 
All  the  meaning  of  the  birds, 
Which  they  will  not  put  in  words  ; 
And  the  tree-toad's  mystic  trill 
Heard  from  far  at  evening  still ; 
And  the  beckoning  ways  and  looks 
Of  the  flowers  in  dewy  nooks  — 
Yes  !  and  of  the  dewdrops  fine, 
In  the  early  morning-shine  ! 


CHILD  AND  POET  67 

He  has  friends  where  ye  have  none ; 
Fellows  in  a  rush  or  stone ; 
Palace-royal  in  the  clouds, 
Sunset  barge  with  sails  and  shrouds. 
Oh,  the  child  a  poet  is, 
Though  unskilled  in  harmonies  ; 
Would  he  had  the  art  to  tell 
What  he  hears  and  sees  so  well, 
Ere  his  senses,  grown  less  keen, 
Say  they  have  not  heard  nor  seen. 
(Let  him  not  too  quickly  lose 
These  rare  pleasures,  gracious  Muse.) 

II 

Now,  the  poet  is  a  child, 

Whom  the  years  have  not  beguiled 

To  forget  the  magic  lore 

That  is  childhood's  careless  store. 

Oh,  the  poet  is  a  child  ! 

And  he  loves  the  new  and  wild ; 

But  the  old  to  him  is  new, 

And  what  seems  but  tame  to  you 

He  with  kind  delight  can  see 

Laugh  in  its  sweet  liberty  ! 

He  is  foiled  and  cheated  never,  — 

Poet's  truth  is  truth  forever  ! 

Though  his  song  you  may  not  heed, 
Though  his  rhyme  you  will  not  read, 
Song  and  rhyme  true  records  hold 


68  SOUTHFOLD  AND   THE  FLOCK 

Of  your  morning  age  of  gold. 
What  you  saw  in  that  fair  time, 
Wild,  or  lovely,  or  sublime 
In  the  mountains,  groves,  or  streams, 
Clear  upon  his  vision  gleams. 
What  you  heard  of  strange  report 
Throughout  Nature's  fields  and  court, 
Told  of  man  or  dreamt  of  God, 
Still  he  hears  spread  all  abroad. 
If  you  do  riot  see  and  hear, 
'T  is  for  time-worn  eye  and  ear  : 
Child  and  poet  shall  not  sever  — 
And  their  truth  is  truth  forever  ! 


DEW-BELLS 


ONCE  on  a  summer  morning 
In  Elfland  I  awoke, 
When,  all  without  a  warning, 
Sweet  tongues  the  silence  broke 
Sweet  tongues  of  tiniest  bells, 
Fine  tongues  of  crystal  sound, 
Rang  all  the  fields  around, 
And  tinkled  down  the  dells  — 
Merry  bells, 

Faery  bells ! 
They  tinkled  down  the  dells ! 


DEW-BELLS  69 

A  long  time  I  lay  quiet, 

To  hear  the  frolic  peal 

Some  great  event  reveal  — 

A  muster,  or  a  riot, 

Or  royal  pixy  wedding ! 

I  heard  a  light  foot  treading 

The  measures  of  a  reel : 

It  was  a  giddy  elf ; 

I  asked  what  bells  were  ringing. 

He  laughed  :  "  Why,  look  yourself, 

And  see  the  dew-bells  swinging  ! 

Dew-bells, 

True  bells, 

Glad  bells, 

Mad  bells  — 
Green  bell-ropes  all  are  swinging !  " 

Quoth  I  :  "  My  friend,  you  fable 
About  this  joyous  Babel ; 
I  've  heard,  indeed,  of  bluebells, 
But  dew-bells  — 

They  're  new  bells  ! 
My  little  friend,  you  fable !  " 

Then  up  my  head  I  lifted : 
The  grasses  young  and  tender, 
On  points  of  lances  slender, 
Bore  each  a  drop  that  shifted 
To  take  the  morning  splendor ; 
Clear  drops, 


70  SOUTHFOLD  AND   THE   FLOCK 

Like  teardrops 

(Or  like  lost  diamond  eardrops), 
Did  lightly  clash  together 
In  the  soft  zephyr  weather, 
And  ring  a  tuneful  change. 
By  little  hands  unseen 
Were  swayed  the  bell-ropes  green ; 
But  it  was  passing  strange 
No  liquid  bell  was  shivered, 
Though  each  one  danced  and  quivered  ; 

Brave  bells, 

Suave  bells, 
Oh,  how  they  danced  and  quivered ! 


When  on  a  summer  morning 
I  watch  the  wondrous  grass, 
I  hear  wise  people  scorning  ; 
They  whisper  as  they  pass  : 
"  Poor  youth  !  his  wits  are  flown  ; 
He  babbles  things  unknown, 
He  talks  of  chimes  one  hears 
Among  the  grassy  spears  !  " 

Ah  me  !  have  I  grown  deaf 

Since  I  through  Elfland  strayed  ? 

I  see,  with  smiling  grief, 

The  crystal  dew-bells  swinging 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade, 

But  cannot  hear  them  ringing  — 


THE  NATURALIST  71 

Dew-bells, 

True  bells  ! 
Joy-bells, 

Coy  bells ! 
I  cannot  hear  them  ringing ! 


THE  NATURALIST 

HE  bides  at  home,  and  treasures  all 
That  to  his  homely  lot  doth  fall. 

He  says,  to  journey  hence 

Were  mere  improvidence, 
For  winds  of  thought  have  sown  his  field, 
And  he  must  wait  the  priceless  yield. 

His  own  loved  arbor-vine 

Provides  Provencal  wine. 
His  hemlocks  chant  the  selfsame  runes 
That,  under  wild  Norwegian  moons, 

The  saga-singing  firs 

To  Night  and  Fame  rehearse. 
His  oak-trees  drop  no  other  mast 
Than  that  Dodona's  oaks  did  cast. 

The  crab-fruits  of  the  waste 

To  him  more  flavorous  taste 
Than  apples  of  Hesperides ; 
And  in  broad-waving  filices 

His  fancy-lighted  eyes 

Mark  lesser  palms  arise. 


72  SOUTHFOLD  AND   THE  FLOCK 

He  keeps  no  garden  richly  ranked 
With  strangers  in  bright  livery  pranked, 
But  takes  delight  to  greet 
Blue  speedwell  at  his  feet, 
And  mints  that  yield  the  bee  its  food, 
And  slender  sorrel  of  the  wood, 
And  chickweed  in  the  grass 
(His  ready  weather-glass), 
And  primrose,  slumbering  all  the  day, 
At  eve  to  meet  the  moonlight  fay  ! 
The  flag  flower  is  his  France 
And  dream  of  old  romance  ; 
While  everlasting  whitely  nods 
Above  these  nibbled  pasture  sods, 
Why  scale  the  Alpine  ice 
To  pluck  the  edelweiss  ? 

He  says,  he  must  not  go  from  home, 
Who  keeps  an  inn  for  those  who  roam : 
Many  a  warbler  gay 
Stops  on  its  northward  way ; 
The  swallows  that  proclaim  his  spring 
From  far  Bermudas  tidings  bring. 
He  finds  the  pewee's  nest, 
With  ruffled  lichens  drest, 
The  field  lark's  under  grassy  eaves ; 
And  one  he  takes,  and  three  he  leaves, 
Of  cherished  eggs  that  lie 
Concealed  in  covert  sly  ; 


THE  NATURALIST  73 

He  is  too  shrewd  for  birds'  decoy. 
He  also  knows  what  tasks  employ 

The  solitary  bee  — 

The  rose-leaf  privacy 
Of  chambers  sealed  and  profound, 
With  velvet  curtains  hung  around  — 

The  nectar  coined  to  keep 

The  larva  weak  from  sleep. 
He  stoops  to  look  on  myrmidons 
Arrayed  in  shining  jet  or  bronze  — 

A  small  world's  civil  feud, 

A  field  with  carnage  strewed, 
And  victors  trampling  down  the  slain 
Upon  the  noiseless  battle-plain  ! 

No  creature  can  evade 

The  snares  that  he  has  laid 
To  learn  its  secret  haunts  and  thrift. 
The  timorous  hare  is  not  so  swift, 

Nor  tortoise  is  so  slow, 

Nor  fox  such  craft  can  show, 
But  wit  and  patience,  never  spent, 
Outspeed,  outstay,  and  circumvent ; 

And  what  least  guides  can  show 

He  follows  fain  to  know. 

He  says  he  dares  not  disesteem 
Or  savant's  lore  or  poet's  dream. 

The  flood  from  heaven's  urn 

He  sees  in  mist  return, 
And,  in  a  globed  drop  of  dew, 


74  SOUTHFOLD  AND   THE  FLOCK 

The  round  world  tremble  into  view. 

The  flowers  of  frost  and  snow, 

That  in  night  stillness  blow, 
And  lucid  grain  and  glinting  spar 
That  in  the  marl  imprisoned  are, 

Observe  relation  fine, 

In  order  crystalline. 

To  him  yon  field  of  billowing  grain 
Spreads  broad  and  free  as  pampas  plain, 

And  neighboring  hills  are  high, 

In  his  ennobling  eye. 
He  will  not  yield  that  Helicon 
And  Castaly  more  limpid  run 

Than  streams  that  take  their  rise 

Anear  his  native  skies  ; 
In  every  clear  unfailing  spring 
He  hears  the  nymph  Egeria  sing. 

She  to  a  prince  of  old 

Did  laws  and  arts  unfold  ; 
Still  Numa  comes,  and  still  she  reads 
Humanities  in  woods  and  meads. 

The  morning  has  a  voice 

That  makes  his  heart  rejoice  ; 
The  noon  pours  amber-drink  for  him, 
And  fills  his  goblet  to  the  brim ; 

The  owlet-light  doth  lend 

The  countenance  of  a  friend, 
And  he  with  hooded  evening  holds 
Strange    trysts   by   murmuring   fields    and 
wolds. 


SIGNS   OF  THE  SEASON  75 

No  season  but  is  kind,  — 

Best  fitted  to  his  mind ; 
So,  none  shall  hear  him  wish  away 
The  pinching  winter  bare  and  gray  ; 

Nor  will  he  chide  the  sky, 

If  it  be  wet  or  dry  : 
The  grain  is  lodged  !  he  will  not  fret ; 
He  holds  rich  Nature  in  his  debt, 

The  balance  to  maintain, 

Adjusting  loss  with  gain. 
He  bides  at  home  and  treasures  all 
That  to  his  homely  lot  doth  fall : 

Each  twelvemonth  to  this  seer 

Completes  a  Wondrous  Year. 


SIGNS  OF  THE  SEASON 

I  BROKE  a  spray  of  willow  by  the  brook, 
When  out,  a  jet  of  sprightly  talk  it  shook : 
"  Ho  !  ho  !     I  '11  kiss  with  blossoms  silver-sleek 
That  sun-and- wind-browned  cheek  !  " 

I  found  an  oakling  and  plucked  off  his  cap, 
When  up  he  sprung  from  his  old  nurse's  lap : 
"  Good-morrow  and  good-morrow,  friend,  to  you ; 
I  'm  for  the  sky  —  adieu  !  " 

I  peered  into  so  many  smiling  eyes ; 

They  met  my  own  with  glances  blithe  and  wise : 


76  SOUTHFOLD  AND   THE  FLOCK 

"  You  need  not  look  o'erhead  —  we  violets  show 
A  little  heaven  below !  " 

I  stood  beside  a  shallow  meadow  pool, 
I  watched  the  fairy-shrimps  —  a  twinkling  school : 
"  We  children  of  the  sun  and  moistened  clod 
Come  at  Spring's  beck  and  nod !  " 

I  saw  a  muskrat  high  floods  could  not  drown, 
Now    smoothly    swimming    through    the    water 

brown  : 

"  I  '11  build  me  summer  galleries  cool  and  dank 
Beneath  the  grassy  bank  !  " 

I  turned  the  turf,  when  out  an  earthworm  rolled 
Uplifting  some  loose  grains  of  mellowing  mould : 
"  I  must  make  haste  to  stir  and  break  the  soil, 
To  help  good  farmers'  toil !  " 

I  saw  a  spider  stretch  her  gossamer  ropes ; 
She  told  me  of  her  secret  plans  and  hopes : 
"  I  catch  the  midge,  and  tangle  in  my  clues 
Sunbeams  and  rainbow  hues  !  " 

I  heard  a  honey-bee  that,  hovering  low 

Above  the  grass,  sang  songs  of  long  ago  : 

"  New  year,  new  flowers,  new  sweets,  new  joys  — 

and  yet 
The  old  I '11  not  forget!" 


TAMBERLIK  TO   THE  BIRDS  77 

I  started  wide  awake,  and  looked  about ; 

I  heard  a  flicker  from  his  watch-tower  shout  — 

And     "quick-quick,    quick -quick,     quick-quick, 

quick-quick  —  quick  !  " 
His  rousing  notes  fell  thick  ! 


TAMBERLIK  TO  THE   BIRDS 

[A  personal  friend  of  Tamberlik,  the  famous  tenor, 
sends  to  a  London  newspaper  the  following  story  of  an 
incident  which  happened  at  Madrid,  where  the  artist  lived 
for  twelve  or  thirteen  years :  "  One  morning  we  were 
walking  through  the  bird -market,  when  suddenly  he 
drew  a  bank-note  for  a  thousand  francs  from  his  pocket, 
bought  up  all  the  little  creatures,  opened  the  cages,  and 
shouted  laughingly  as  the  birds  flew  up  into  the  air,  '  Go 
and  be  free,  my  brothers  ! '  "  —  New  York  Evening  PostJ] 

CAGE-DOOR  is  open  —  hark  ! 

Sparrow,  and  thrush,  and  linnet, 
Starling,  nightingale,  lark  — 

Gray,  or  golden,  or  sable  — 
Out,  like  a  shaft  to  the  mark ! 

Cage-door  is  open  —  fly  ! 

Whistler,  twitterer,  warbler, 
And  you  that  but  sob  or  cry, 

You,  the  slumber-smooth  ringdove, 
Out,  to  the  sun  and  the  sky  ! 

Cage-door  is  open  —  free ! 
You  by  the  grassy  meadow, 


78  SOUTUFOLD  AND   THE  FLOCK 

And  you  in  the  thicket  or  tree  ! 

You  in  the  fold  of  the  valley, 

And  you  by  the  boundless  sea ! 

Cage-door  is  open  —  sing  ! 

Pure  gladness  !  fly  southward,  fly  northward, 
Each  one  in  your  turn  carry  spring, 

Faithful,  unbribed,  undelaying, 
Alike  to  peasant  and  king. 

Cage  door  is  open  —  sing  ! 

Sing  this :  "  'T  was  our  own  brother  freed  us, 
But  ah,  't  is  a  wondrous  sad  thing ; 

For  pity  and  love  he  freed  us, 
Yet  himself  hath  a  cage-fast  wing !  " 

Cage-door  is  open  —  nay, 

Be  free,  and  forget,  O  my  brothers, 
Him  who  released  you  this  day, 

For  his  soul  will  sing  in  its  prison, 
In  the  birds'  and  the  poet's  way ! 

SAID  THE  WREN   TO  THE  THRUSH 

"  THEY  say,"  said  the  wren  to  the  thrush  —  "  and 
I  know,  for  I  build  at  their  eaves  — 

They  say,  every  song  that  we  sing,  on  the  wing 

or  hid  in  the  leaves, 
Is  sung  for  their  pleasure  — 

And  you  know  't  is  for  Love  and  ourselves  that 
we  sing !  " 


CROSSING   THE  BAY  79 

"  Did  they  say,"  said  the  thrush  to  the  wren,  — 
"  I  'm  out  of  their  circle,  I  own,  — 

Did  they  say  that  the  songs  they  sing  are  not  for 

themselves  alone, 
But  to  give  us  pleasure  ?  " 

«  Why,  no,"  said  the  wren,  "  they  said  no  such 
thing!" 


CROSSING  THE  BAY 

CROSSING  the  Bay, 
I  watched  the  swift  gulls  incessant  at  toil  or  at 

play: 

And   the   many  were  gray,  as  the  wave  ere  it 
breaks  is  gray, 

But  the  one  was  white 
As  the  wave  at  full  height, 

When  it  blanches  and   breaks   in  a  passion   of 
vehement  light. 

The  many  were  gray, 
The  one  was  white.  — 
A  shot  o'er  the  Bay, 
And  a  cry  from  the  gray : 

"  We  hear,  and  we  fear  something  follows  to  work 
us  despite !  " 

Mounting  in  flight 

From  the  kiss  of  the  spray, 

Made  answer  the  white : 


80  SOUTHFOLD  AND   THE  FLOCK 

"  O  comrades,  while  me  ye  have  with  you  let 
nothing  dismay ; 

Ye  are  many  —  and  gray, 
I  am  one  —  and  white  ! 

While    me  ye  have  with  you  let  nothing  your 
courage  affray ! " 

A  shot  o'er  the  Bay,  — 
And  down  dropped  the  white ; 
And  the  white  of  the  spray  where  he  fell  for  an 
instant  blushed  bright. 

Crossing  the  Bay, 

This  I  beheld,  and  fashioned  a  rhyme  of  the  way : 
For  men,  as  for  birds,  Fates  mark  is  the  white, 
not  the  gray  ! 


PETITS   NAUFRAGES 

I  SAW  a  little  shallop 

That  lately  came  to  grief, 

Midway  a  slender  river, 
Upon  a  pebble  reef  ; 

The  water-weed  lapped  round  it 
With  many  an  oozy  leaf. 

But  what  is  that  to  you  or  me  ? 

Such  little  shipwrecks  aye  must  be. 

I  saw  two  shattered  pinions 
With  rainbow  colors  pied, 


PET  ITS  NAUFRAGES  81 

That  once  had  carried  Psyche 

In  beauty  and  in  pride  ; 
The  summer  dust  befouled  them, 

Nor  yet  would  kindly  hide. 
But  what  is  that  to  you  or  me  ? 
Such  petty  ruin  aye  must  be. 

I  saw  a  mother  wood-dove, 
Her  gray  breast  dabbled  red, 

And,  above  the  evening  whisper 
Of  old  boughs  overhead, 

I  heard  the  cry  of  nestlings 
That  waited  to  be  fed. 

But  what  is  that  to  you  or  me  ? 

Such  petty  sorrow  aye  must  be. 

To  high  estates  pertaineth 

The  majesty  of  woe  ; 
Yet  see  how  lightsome  creatures, 

That  Heaven  hath  humbled  so, 
The  selfsame  way  of  ruin 

With  selfsame  paces  go ! 
But  what  were  these  to  you  or  me, 
Save  that  a  fellow-fate  we  see  ? 

The  keel  of  puny  venture, 

The  summer's  tenderling,  — 
The  butterfly,  the  wood-dove 

With  death-arrested  wing, 


82  SOUTHFOLD  AND   THE  FLOCK 

All  bid  us,  as  they  vanish, 

Their  Linus-song  to  sing. 
But  what  were  these  to  you  or  me 
Save  that  with  them  we  soon  shall  be  ? 


HALF   SIGHT  AND   WHOLE   SIGHT 

THIS  flower  of  the  lilied  field  —  do  I  see  it  com 
pletely  ? 
Over  its  wonder-face  mine  eye  runneth  fleetly, 

One  moment  proclaiming  it  mine  — 

Color  and  texture  and  line. 

Ah,  but  already  something  it  is,  hath  escaped  me  ; 
Ah,  but  my  conquest  is  not  as  the  free  fancy 
shaped  me ! 

Humbly  my  vaunt  I  recall ; 

I  but  see  that  I  see  not  all. 

And   now  as   I   gaze,    sight's   possession   grows 

fainter  and  fainter. 
Am  I  solely  thwarted  ?     Nay,   nor  savant  nor 

painter 

All  this  perfection  can  see, 
But  only  in  kind  and  degree. 

Each  purblind  alone,  whole   sight  requires   the 
whole  human, 


THE  FRINGED    GENTIAN  83 

The  eye  of  the  child  and  the  graybeard,  of  man 

and  of  woman. 
Poet  divine,  can  it  be 
Full  vision  concentres  in  thee  ? 

Thou  beholdest,  indeed,  some  mystical  intimate 

beckoning 
Out  of  the  flower's  honeyed  heart,  that  passeth 

our  reckoning. 

Yet  when  hast  thou  seen,  or  shalt  see, 
"With  the  eye  of  yon  hovering  bee  ? 


THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN 

ONCE,  to  the  Angel  of  Birds  far  up  in  the  rip 
pling  air, 

From  low  on  the  sun-loved  earth  the  Angel  of 
Flowers  breathed  a  prayer  : 

"  Four  plumes  from  the  bluebird's  wing  —  and 
I  '11  make  me  something  rare !  " 

Four  plumes  from  the  bluebird's  wing,  as  fast  to 

the  South  he  flew  ! 
The  Angel  of  Flowers  caught  them  up  as  they 

fell  in  the  autumn  dew, 
And  shaped  with  a  twirl  of  her  fingers  this  spire 

of  feathery  blue. 


84  SOUTHFOLD  AND   THE   FLOCK 


THE  CLOSED  GENTIAN 

WHAT  shall  I  say  of  thee, 
Flower  all  elusive,  guarding  alike  from  the  rain 

and  the  sun 

The  mystical  heart  of  thyself  — 
What  shall  I  say  of  thee  ? 
Hast  thou  some  foe  thou  wouldst  shun  ? 
Art  thou  a  shrine  —  the  saint  of  the  shrine  —  the 

pale  pilgrim  seeker  ? 
Or  else  to  the  bee  and  bold  elf 

Knowing  the  way  of  thee, 
Art  thou  a  chamber  for  feasting  and  revel,  and 

do  they  purvey  of  thee 
Honey,  and  wine  in  a  beaker  ? 


A  SEASIDE  ROSE 

I  TOOK  a  flush  toll 

From  the  roses  that  wave  on  the  knoll ; 
I  spared  not  the  roses  that  follow 
The  stream  that  greens  the  warm  hollow ; 
But  I  plucked  back  my  hand 
From  the  Beauty  that  blooms  in  the  bitter  white 

sand. 

And  my  worship  was  great 
(As  my  wonder  was  great) 
Hearing  her  rose-lips  bland 

Proclaim : 


THE  WOOD-PEWEE  85 

" '  Love-in-the- Waste  '  is  my  name ! 
Subservient  Hate 
Feeds  mine  estate, 
Bows  to  my  God-lighted  flame ! 

Here  am  I  set 

Thine  heart  and  thine  hope  to  abet  — 
*  Love-in-the- Waste  '  is  my  name  !  " 


THE  WOOD-PEWEE 

"  PEER  !  peer  !  peer  !  " 

Far  and  aloof, 
A  night  of  pines  beneath, 

And  through  their  crannied  roof  — 
Keen  as  a  sword  from  its  sheath  — 
Lo,  the  lone-lingering  morning  star ! 

Aloof  and  afar, 

From  undiscovered  dim,  green  perch, 
Comes  a  long  note  of  search,  — 

Voice  of  mystery, 

Voice  of  warning, 
Crossed  with  the  mere  shadow  of  fear, 

"  Peer  !  peer !  peer !  " 

It  comes  to  the  ear 

Of  the  dell-cradled  Morning. 

On  her  fair  hand  she  props 
Her  curl-clustered  head 

Whence  the  unlighted  drops 


86  SOUTHFOLD  AND   THE  FLOCK 

Of  night-dew  one  by  one  are  shed. 
Still  far  and  near  — 
"  Peer  !  peer !  peer !  " 

She  listens  warily  — 

Falls  dreaming  for  a  moment's  space, 
Then  riseth,  and,  stepping  airily, 

Taketh  her  way  apace,  — 

White-footed,  wonder-eyed,  balm-breathing  Morn 
ing  ! 
While  aloft,  from  dim  green  perch, 

Fainter  grows 

To  its  tremulous  close 
That  long  note  of  search,  — 

Voice  of  mystery, 

Voice  of  warning, 
Crossed  with  the  mere  shadow  of  fear,  — 

"Peer!  peer!  peer!" 


WHY  DID  YE   SO? 

THESE  found  a  voice  who  never  spake  before, 
In  Shadow  Land  these  witness  evermore  !  — 
"  I  was  the  moth,  flower-like  upon  the  wind, 
Your  wrinkled  savant  in  his  charnel  pinned. 
Why  did  ye  so  ?  " 

"  I  was  the  fledgling  that,  of  mine  own  will, 
Did  keep  fast-closed  my  soft  and  tender  bill 


CYBELE  AND  HER  CHILDREN  87 

To  food  your  cruel  kindness  did  prepare  ; 
Famished,  I  died  —  for  mother-love  and  care. 
Why  did  ye  so  ?  " 

"  I  was  Llewellyn's  dog,  that  anger  smote 
When  my  rash  master  saw  on  breast  and  throat 
The  lean  wolf's  blood,  the  while  in  safety  slept 
The  cradle-child  my  faithful  love  had  kept. 
Why  did  ye  so  ?  " 

"  I  was  the  snow-white  ranger  of  the  snow.1 
The  Arctic  traveler  met  me.     Blow  for  blow 
I  fought ;  my  cub  upon  my  back  fought,  too, 
Till  crimson  all  the  snow  around  us  grew. 
Why  did  ye  so  ?  " 

"  I  was  Harpado  from  Xarama's  bank  ; 
My  life  the  sands  in  gay  Granada  drank  "  — 
"  And  I  the  steed  Harpado's  horn  did  gore  !  " 
In  Shadow  Land  these  witness  evermore. 
Why  did  ye  so  ? 


CYBELE   AND   HER  CHILDREN 

THE  Mother  has  eternal  youth, 
Yet  in  the  fading  of  the  year, 

For  sake  of  what  must  fade,  in  ruth 
She  wears  a  crown  of  oak  leaves  sear. 
1  Narrated  by  Dr.  Kane. 


88  SOUTHFOLD  AND  THE  FLOCK 

By  whistling  woods,  by  naked  rocks, 
That  long  have  lost  the  summer's  heat, 

She  calls  the  wild  unfolded  flocks, 

And  points  them  to  their  shelter  meet. 

In  her  deep  bosom  sink  they  all  : 
The  hunter  and  the  prey  are  there ; 

No  ravin-cry,  no  hunger-call ; 

These  do  not  fear,  and  those  forbear. 

The  winding  serpent  watches  not ; 

Unwatched,  the  field-mouse  trembles  not ; 
Weak  hyla,  quiet  in  his  grot, 

So  rests,  nor  changes  line  or  spot. 

For  food  the  Mother  gives  them  sleep ; 

Against  the  cold  she  gives  them  sleep ; 
To  cheat  their  foes  she  gives  them  sleep,  — 

For  safety  gives  them  death-like  sleep. 

The  Mother  has  eternal  youth, 

And  therefrom,  in  the  wakening  year, 

Their  life  revives  ;  and  they,  in  sooth, 
Forget  their  mystic  bondage  drear ! 


L  UCINA  89 


LUCINA 

THINE  are  the  buds  within  the  woody  spray 
That  reddens  toward  the  spring  and  lengthening 

day; 

Thine  subtly,  from  the  patient  toiling  root, 
To  draw  sweet  currents  to  the  topmost  shoot.  — 
Smite  thou  with  solar  shaft, 
Rock  on  JEolian  draft, 
Buffet  with  down-poured  floods,  — 
Feed  strong  thy  tenderlings,  the  unblown  buds  ! 

Thine  are  the  germs  that  when  the  year  died 

down 

Hid  them  below  the  year's  despoiled  crown ; 
Thine  to  release  to  them  the  vital  store 
That  garnered  lies  at  the  white  frostless  core.  — 

Dislodge  the  cumbering  mould, 

Shower  them  with  Titan's  gold, 

In  sylvan  glades,  in  meads ; 
They  are  thy  little  wards,  the  striving  seeds. 

And  thine  the  yet  unplumed,  unsinging  hope 
Of  singing  ones  that  by  a  sun-warm  slope, 
Or  hollow  where  the  brake  is  first  unfurled, 
Hover,  and  brood  the  centre  of  a  world.  — 

Be  their  mute  hope  thy  care, 

Soon  on  the  dew-fresh  air 

Faint  hunger-cries  be  heard,  — 
Thou  quickener  of  the  nighted,  shell-bound  bird ! 


90  SOUTH  FOLD  AND   THE  FLOCK 

Thine,  thine  all  life  until  the  birth-hour  fall, 
And  nascent  being  waken  at  thy  call ! 
Then  fleest  thou,  inconstant,  having  won 
For  each  the  world-embathing  air  and  sun. 

Not  stayed  by  gift  or  vow,  — 

A  soft  half-memory  thou, 

A  waning  aureole 

From  the  bright  mist  that  wrapped  the  stranger 
soul ! 

Thou  —  is  it  thou  that  to  the  early  year 
Lendest  a  glory  fugitive  and  dear, 
A  passion  to  its  chill,  dim-colored  flowers, 
A  restless  vigil  to  its  murmuring  hours  ? 

O  chary  ministrant 

Of  dreams  revisitant, 

When  vernal  winds  arise 

Breathing   vague   cheer   from   other   earth   and 
skies ! 

As  the  pent  leaf  and  song-bird  wait  for  thee 
To  dart  the  orient  beam  that  sets  them  free, 
We  wait  some  tremulous  forerunning  glow, 
Signal  of  life  supremer  than  we  know.  — 
In-shining  Morn  and  Spring, 
To  fields  Ely  si  an  bring 
And  crown  with  being's  whole,  — 
Thou  Daybreak  of  the  worn  night-traveling  soul ! 


Ill 

LA  MUSE  S' AMUSE 


GRAND  PLANS 

TRANSLATED   FROM   BERANGER 

A  SUBJECT  for  heroic  verse  I  've  found ; 
Ere  ten  years  pass  this  work  the  world  shall  see  : 
Yes,  then  my  brows  with  epic  laurel  bound, 
My  royal  claim  shall  well  established  be. 

My  subject  lends  itself  to  tragic  forms  ; 
On  strong  and  rapid  wing  my  flight  I  hold ; 
My  piece  is  greeted  with  applausive  storms, 
And  I  am  showered  with  honors,  glory,  gold. 

On  tragedy  must  patient  labor  wait ; 
The  ode  remains,  —  therein  my  theme  I  '11  cast ; 
The  ode,  with  incense  rich,  can  make  one's  state 
Like  that  of  kings,  or  even  gods,  at  last. 

The  ode  requires  a  stately  surge  and  swell ; 
The  song  will  better  suit  my  theme ;  ah,  then 
Sleep,  Pindar,  Homer,  ^Eschylus,  sleep  well ! 
I  dream  an  eagle  —  and  I  wake  a  wren ! 

What  great  design  but  slips  and  ebbs  away  ? 
So  many  a  genius  fails  through  impulse  lost. 
'T  is  thus  with  all :  who  only  songs  essay 
Shall  but  achieve  a  quatrain,  at  the  most. 


94          LA  MUSE  &  AM  USE 


THE  WISE  AND  THE  FOOLISH 
SHEPHERD 


THERE  was  a  waggish  shepherd  lad  of  old, 

Who  found  it  dull,  no  doubt,  to  watch  a  fold, 

And  practice  on  the  Pan-pipe  innocent, 

So  sought  and  found  a  new  divertisement, 

To  wit :  whenever  travelers  passed  him  by, 

"  Wolf !  wolf  !    Jove  help  me  !  "  was  his  plaintive 

cry. 

So  many  times  this  little  game  he  tried, 
At  length  't  was  known  to  all  the  countryside ; 
And  when,  in  autumn  weather,  keen  and  cool, 
The  gray  contractor  came  and  took  his  wool, 
(And  eke  his  mutton,  and  himself  as  well !) 
They  thought  his  "  Wolf  "  cry  still  the  same  old 

sell. 

So  runs  our  precious  fable,  but  the  truth 
Is  as  I  tell  it  now :  That  gamesome  youth 
Continued  still  to  sell,  and  ne'er  was  sold, 
But,  full  of  honors  and  of  love,  grew  old. 
Whene'er  he  made  a  hue  and  cry,  all  ran, 
Both  gentlefolk  and  peasants,  to  a  man. 

'T  is  true  the  ferine  foe  they  never  saw, 
But  certain  marks  left  by  his  savage  paw, 


THE  WISE  AND  THE  FOOLISH  SHEPHERD    95 

Which   tenderly  they  salved,  whilst   God   they 

praised 
Their  shepherd  true  had  not  been  slain,  though 

badly  grazed  ! 

ii 

Another  shepherd  wight  there  was,  alas  ! 
As  silly  as  the  sheep  that  nipped  the  grass ; 
For  he,  in  days  of  safety  and  content, 
Did  practice  well  the  Pan-pipe  innocent ; 
And  other  times,  when  danger  he  surmised, 
Kept  faithful  watch,  so  not  to  be  surprised. 
The  grizzly  mountaineer  oft  prowled  about ; 
The   shepherd  stood  his  ground,  but  raised  no 

shout, 

Till,  on  a  day  the  wolf  grew  fell  and  fierce, 
One  cry  the  shepherd  uttered,  fit  to  pierce 
Whatever  ear  to  human  anguish  keen, 
Whatever  heart  that  pitiful  had  been. 

The  truth  proceeds  to  say  (no  fable  this), 
No  passer-by  deemed  aught  had  chanced  amiss, 
But  one  to  other  spake,  "  That  shepherd  boy 
Thinks  he  befools  us  with  his  cheap  decoy  !  " 
'T  is  true,  when  half  a  twelvemonth  had  rolled 
by,_ 

And  Pan-pipe  melody,  and  bleating  cry 

Of   sheep   no  more  were  heard,  but   blanching 

bones 
Were  seen  amid  the  upland  turf  and  stones, 


96  LA   MUSE  S' AMUSE 

The   question   rose,    "Was   there   not  once,  up 

yonder, 
A  silly  soul   that  used  with  flock  and  pipe  to 

wander  ?  " 


SPENSERIAN   STANZAS 

(NOT   IN   THE    FAERIE   QUEENE) 

SCENE  —  A   Wilderness  on  a  remote  border  of  the  realm 
swayed  by  the  Faerie  Queene. 

THERE,  as  the  royall  beast  in  slomber  lay, 
His  yellow  mane  all  in  the  sunne  dispred, 
I  lightly  smote  him  with  my  launcegay  ; 
Whereat  he  sluggishly  upreared  his  hed, 
As  one  that  had  on  dainty  meates  bene  fed 
Ere  he  in  Morpheus  webby  toiles  was  caught. 
Though  erst  I  had  bene  sore  disquieted, 
His  gentle  mien  great  corage  in  me  wrought, 
And,    "  Lyon,    where    is    Una  ? "    thus   I    him 
besought. 

Then  gan  that  mightie  beast  to  quake  and  quayle, 
To  make  his  voice  full  pittifull  and  small, 
To  start,  to  stop,  as  loath  to  tell  the  tale  : 
"  Fayre  Una  is  —  but  death  must  come  to  all, 
Or  in  the  thatched  hut  or  loftie  hall ! 
Here   wandring,   farre  from   peace  and   safeties 
port, 


WORLD-WIDE  FAME  97 

Despite  my  care  a  thousand  ills  might  fall ; 
Wherefore,  to  save  her  from  all  scath  and  tort, 
Paynim,  I  steeled  my  hart  —  I  ate  her  up,  in 
short !  " 


A   BARD  TO  HIS   MAECENAS 
(ODE  xx.  BOOK  n.  HORACE) 

"  OH,  not  on  spent  or  feeble  wing 
Up  through  the  liquid  air  I  spring, 
Leave  earth,  and  malice  blind, 
And  critics  far  behind ! 

"  Superior  I,  —  then  do  not  fear 
Such  worth  shall  die,  Maecenas  dear ; 
The  Styx's  dingy  flow 
I  shall  not  undergo ; 

"  For  bristling  quills  and  plumes  I  feel 
Upon  my  arms  and  shoulders  steal ; 
And  now,  my  wings  I  loose, 
I  soar,  —  a  very  goose." 

WORLD-WIDE   FAME 

VOICES  of  genii  through  the  wide  air  ran 
(Who  knoweth,  if  in  pity  or  in  mirth  ?)  — 

"  See  what  vainglory  marks  the  ways  of  man  ! 
This  had  some  honor  in  his  native  earth ; 


98  LA  MUSE  S'AMUSE 

But  not  the  nearest  planet  knew  his  name, 
And  few  of  us  can  tell  from  whence  he  came  — 
Yet  the  nude  soul  still  boasts  of  world-wide  fame ! 


ANAXAGORAS 

WHEN   shallow   hearts   reproached   the   pilgrim 

wise, 

"Wanderer,  why  dost  not  thou  thy  country  prize  ?" 
He  raised  to  Heaven  his  tranquil,  smiling  eyes,  — 
"  I  do,"  he  answered ;  "  there  my  country  lies  !  " 

VANITY 

How  brave  it  is,  in  all  its  splendor  drest ! 
How  poor,  when  of  its  lordly  gear  divest ! 
So  Juno's  bird,  if  his  gay  plumage  fall, 
In  abject  grief  hides  under  hedge  or  wall. 

TRAVELING  FOR  HEALTH 

IN  quest  of  health,  I  roved  the  world  around. 

A  mile  from  home  a  healing  spring  I  found. 

"  Here  's  health  —  but  mark  !  "  (the  naiad  smiled 

advice) 
"Each  day,   on  foot,   you    here    must   journey 

thrice !  " 


QUATRAINS  99 


THE   RURAL  MUSE 

WHEN"  down  he  sits  to  cultivate  the  muse 
Some  vine  or  tree  unpruned  invites  outside ; 

Outside  his  study  demon  hard  pursues, 

And  through  the  window  pen  and  parchment 
chide ! 

A  STYLE   OF   HIS   OWN 

SCRIBLERIUS  reads  no  writings  (save  his  own), 
For  fear  his  style  should  lose  its  vigorous  tone,  — 
Which  gravely  some  approve,  while  others  smile, 
Well-pleased  to  learn  Scriblerius  has  a  style. 


THE   SILENT   PARTNER 

HE  had  no  thoughts,  no  winged  words  had  I ; 

To  conquer  all  defects  we  did  combine : 
He  fledged  my  thoughts  —  now  round  the  world 
they  fly, 

But  ah,  the  flock  is  counted  his,  not  mine  ! 


A  LUCUBRATION 

HE  held  a  firefly  to  the  page,  and  read 
Ten  lines  of  Homer  by  the  light  it  shed. 


100  LA  MUSE  &AMUSE 

Released,  it  went  upon  its  shining  way  — 
A  wiser  firefly  ?     Ah  !  let  sages  saya 


PATIENCE  CEASED  TO   BE  A  VIRTUE 

LONG,  long,  and  sweetly  he  had  borne  each  load, 
At  last  some  slight  increase  drove  in  the  goad  ; 
Then  cried   they  all  whose   burdens    bent   him 

low, 
"  'Tis  strange,  't  is  sad,  that  trifles  fret  him  so  !  " 


MISTAKEN  MAGNANIMITY 

THE  storm  of  words  was  past,  the  air  was  cleared, 
When  "  I  forgive  you  !  "  thus  he  volunteered. 
"  If  any  one  forgives,"  she  said,  "  't  is  I !  "  — 
The  storm  returned,  and  murky  grew  the  sky. 


A  COUNTER 

So  knavishly  they  played  the  game  of  hearts, 

She  counted  him  a  victim  to  her  arts, 

He  thought  her  snared.     So,  pleased  both  went 

their  way  ; 
And  yet,  forsooth,  old  strategists  were  they  ! 


QUATRAINS  10,1 


THE   SOCIAL   TIGRESS 

BESIDE  her  lair  and  winding  paths  are  seen 
Full  many  slain,  and  many  more  a-mort. 

And  is  our  jungle  beauty's  zest  so  keen  ? 

Ah  yes  !  yet  not  from  hunger,  but  from  sport. 


COOPERATION 

To  cancel  wrong  it  ever  was  required 

The  wrong  should  be  forgiven,  and  forgot : 

Ah,  see,  how  well  have  thou  and  I  conspired, 
Since  I  forgive,  and  thou  rememberest  not ! 


A  BIRD  FROM  THE   CAGE 

I  GUESS  thou  art  a  roving  cage-bird  —  thou, 
With  thy  lame  flights  between  low  bough  and 

bough, 

And  with  thine  anxious  peerings  there  and  here  — 
As  though  betwixt  the  wires  thou  still  didst  peer ! 


URBS   IN   RURE 

WHAT  suit  makes  he  to  Nature  ?     Let  him  pass. 
She  is  to  him  but  a  wild  outland  lass  ; 


LA.  MUSE  &  AMUSE 

She  wearies  him  (would  he  his  heart  confess), 
For  he  discerns  not  her  true  loveliness. 


A  VIOLET  IN  NOVEMBER 

SHINE  in,  low  sun,  upon  this  southward  spot ; 
Here  let  the  sateless  black-frost  pasture  not ; 
So  May's  lost  child,  freed  from  all  season  harms, 
Shall  dream  she  nestles  in  her  mother's  arms. 


A  POET 

BETTER  for  thee  if  in  Time's  jocund  spring 
Thou  hadst  been  born  —  but  cease  thou  not  to 

sing; 
For  song   and  dream,  poor   soul,   are  all   thou 

hast 
To  safeguard  thee  on  glooming  Autumn  cast ! 


THE   STAR  IN  THE   STREAM 

SEE,  down  the  bank,  a  broken  fiery  gleam  — 
Antares  drowned  within  our  meadow  stream  ! 
But  now,  lift  up  thy  wonder-loving  eye  — 
Lo,  still  Antares  burns  in  southern  sky  ! 


QUATRAINS  103 


THE  SOUL  IN  THE   BODY 

WHAT  if  the  Soul  her  real  life  elsewhere  holds, 
Her  faint  reflex  Time's  darkling  stream  enfolds, 
And  thou  and  I,  though  seeming  dwellers  here, 
Live  somewhere  yonder  in  the  starlit  sphere  ? 


INSOMNIA 

A  HOUSE  of  sleepers  —  I,  alone  unhlest, 
Am  yet  awake  and  empty  vigil  keep. 

When  these,  who  spend  life's  day  with  me,  find 

rest, 
Oh,  let  me  not  be  last  to  fall  asleep ! 


THE   FLOWER   OF   DREAMS 

WHAT  flower  was  that  I  plucked  in  sleep  last 

night  ? 

Not  this  world's  lily,  violet,  or  rose  ; 
The  Flower  of  Dreams  greets  not  the  upper  light : 
In  under-fields,  with  asphodel,  it  blows. 


BETWEEN  TWO 

POOR  Love  loved  two  whom  anger  did  inflame. 
Each  sought  Love's  aid.     But  when  at  last,  all 
loth, 


104  LA  MUSE  &  AM  USE 

Impbrtuned  Love  an  armed  champion  came, 
These  two,  now  friends  —  Love  took  the  stripes 
of  both! 


DE   MORTUIS 

THEY  read  upon  a  tomb  in  Samarcand, 
If  I  were  living,  none  were  glad  thereof. 

This  legend  two  alone  can  understand,  — 
Who  loves  no  more  —  who  is  forgot  by  love. 


AN  AUTOGRAPH 

HE  wrote  upon  the  sand  his  autograph ; 
A  little  wave  erased  it  with  a  laugh. 


DISTINCTION 

WHEN  past  Oblivion's  pale  the  throng  upstarts, 
Seek  we  the  shade  and  a  few  quiet  hearts. 

A   RHYME   OF  LIFE 

DOST  think  it  was  for  nothing  that  "  to-morrow  " 
The   Muse    from    oldest   time    has   linked    with 
"  sorrow  "  ? 


COUPLETS  105 


THE  DERELICT 

HE  drifts  along  as  his  lost  Genius  becks, 

A  wreck  of  Fate,  and  fated  source  of  wrecks. 


OPINION 

IN  gulf  —  or  pool  —  their  f athom-lirie  they  sink, 
And  still  they  strive  to  think  what  they  do  think. 


NODDING  CRITICS 

You  saw  good  Homer  nod  ?     But  I  saw  you ; 
Asleep  you  were  !     (Some  say  that  I  slept,  too.) 


IV 

'    SONNETS  AND  EPILOGUE 


THE  WINE  OF   LUSITANIA 

TO    S.    R.    E. 

OH,  who  would  storm  with  foolish  half-fledged 

wings 

The  Heaven  of  Song,  and  in  one  morning  spend 
His  lease  of  flight  and  music,  and  descend 
To  be  henceforth  with  dumb,  unbuoyant  things,  — 
The  scourge  proud  rashness  from  Apollo  brings  ! 
Let  me  be  mute  an  age,  and  take  for  friend 
Strong  Life  —  so  may  I  offer  at  the  end 
One  strain  dew-freshened  from  Pierian  springs, 
That  shall  not  other  be  than  as  the  wine 
Swart  Lusitania  for  her  kings  doth  shed  : 
Its  clusters,  hoarding  up  the  rich  sunshine, 
Know  not  the  groaning  press  nor  peon's  tread, 
But,  full  ripe  globe  on  globe,   their  sweets  re 
sign 
In  slow  distillment,  slender,  but  divine  ! 


PASADA  MANANA 

Now  I  discern  a  day  unrisen  yet  — 

As  they  who  dwell  in  valleys  may  behold 


110  SONNETS 

The  sun's  bright  feet  on  crag  and  parapet  * 
Ere  he  o'erlays  the  lowland  streams  with  gold  ! 
Now  I  discern  the  summers  that  shall  be, 
The  flowers  beneath  the  winter-chastened  turf, 
The  leaves  still  furled  within  the  hoary  tree, 
The  birds  that  sport  in  southern  sun  and  surf  ! 
What  voices  break  from  out  the  after-times  ! 
I  hear  them  (I  that  soon  am  senseless  clod)  : 
What  stirs  in  busy  marts,  what  morning  chimes 
In  cities  of  new  men  and  shrines  of  God  ! 
And  yet  these  all  shall  pass,  shall  fall,  in  turn  : 
A  morrow  past  to-morrow  I  discern ! 


THE  BITTER-SWEET  OF  SPRING 


Now  is  the  tender  moment  of  the  year 
When  bards  of  Hellas  feigned  the  sweet  return 
Of  Ceres'  daughter  from  the  Night's  sojourn. 
Feigned  ?     Nay,  she  comes  apace  —  she  now  is 

here, 

Soft-sobbing,  while  her  mother's  arms  ensphere  ; 
Soft-laughing,  childlike  striving  to  relearn 
Familiar  words  forgot  in  Orcus  stern,  — 
While   with   her,  sobs  and   laughs   her   mother 

dear. 

Hence  for  us  also  doth  the  season  weave 
A  subtile  weft  of  heartache  and  fine  joy : 


THE  BITTER-SWEET  OF  SPRING      111 

We  walk  in  gladness,  yet  some  fond  annoy 
From  unlaid  sorrow  to  our  steps  will  cleave  ; 
But  when  we,  single-hearted,  turn  to  grieve, 
Lo  !  some  new  beauty  springs  with  quick  decoy  ! 


With  pain  of  joy  doth  vernal  nature  thrill, 

And  takes  its  mood,  sad-memoried,  soothed,  or 

wild, 

From  ever-changing  moods  of  Ceres'  child  : 
Her  groping  thought,  —  the  mists  that  valleys  fill ; 
Her  kindling  life,  —  the  glow  upon  the  hill 
In  mid-days  when  the  quivering  air  is  mild  ; 
Her  wistful  glance,  —  when   golden   suns  have 

smiled 
Good-night  on   green  fields  stretching  lone  and 

still. 

Anemone  and  cress  rain-swept  and  blurred, 
Stirrings  and  sighings  of  the  grass-blade  frail, 
Carols  that  wake  among  bare  boughs,  and  fail, 
The  tree-toad's  twilight  cry,  ere  comes  the  bird  :  — 
Tokens  of  her  thou  hast  both  seen  and  heard, 
And  canst  thou  longer  doubt  the  old  Greek  tale  ! 

in 

Thou  knowest  not  I  love  thee  —  no,  not  yet, 
More  than  the  plains  in  heavy  darkness  drowned 
Forecast  that  cheerful  Day  will  flow  around, 
And  to  the  ancient  Night  his  limit  set. 


112  SONNETS 

Thou  knowest  not  thou  hast  me  in  thy  debt, 
More  than  this  pallid  winter-guarded  ground 
Forecasts  the  shower  from  April  cloud  unbound, 
The  drinking  grass-blade  and  the  violet. 
Thou  knowest  not  I  love  thee !     Yet  no  less 
Than  as  the  Day  and  Springtide  hither  tend 
Do  I  with  unperceived  motion  bend 
My  gradual  steps  toward  thee ;  nor  canst  thou 

guess 

How  I,  for  all  delaying,  will  but  bless 
Thy  life  with  richer  service  in  the  end. 

IV 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  savage  Winter  lies, 
Untracked  and  fair,  a  realm  of  halcyon  dreams. 
Limpid  and  free  run  on  the  talking  streams  ; 
With  bloomy  drift  the  stooping  tree  replies. 
Ofttimes  a  wood-sprite  in  a  thrush's  guise 
Eludes  all  search,  though  near  its  rapture  seems  ; 
And  morning   meadows,  where    the    dew    yet 

gleams, 

Look  heavenward,  vivid  with  a  thousand  eyes. 
Last   night  Sleep  bore  me  to   this  charm-wrapt 

place, 

Where  thou  (supreme  in  joy  and  peace  alway) 
Wast  gathering  cool  white  florets  born  of  May. 
Of  these  one  dazzled  with  so  strange  a  grace 
That  I  besought  thee  tell  its  name  and  race. 
Thou  smiling  saidst,  "  It  is  the  Eye  of  Day." 


DEEP-SEA    SPRINGS  113 


Bright  days  are  with  us,  lengthened  and  serene. 
The  clods  grow  mellow,  and  the  forest  hath 
Its  budding  pleasures  ;  yet  of  Winter's  scath 
Some  drear  memorials  here  and  there  are  seen. 
For,  though  the  wind  no  more  breathes  frosty- 
keen, 

It  often  floats  the  old  leaves  in  our  path, 
Or  sighs  along  some  unreaped  aftermath, 
To  mind  us  of  the  rigor  that  hath  been. 
0  thou  my  Joy,  Spring  of  my  Wondrous  Year  ! 
Forgive,  if  in  thy  presence  aught  of  grief 
Remain  from  that  dead  time  ere  thou  wast  here. 
Now,  surely,  such  gainsaying  shall  be  brief ; 
For  thou  wilt  set  my  feet  where  flower  and  leaf 
And  soft  new  sward  blot  out  the  stubble  sere. 


DEEP-SEA  SPRINGS 

THOU  readest  how  in  lands  of  tropic  heat, 
When  lake  and  river  fail  and  thirst  is  sore, 
The  parched  dweller  by  the  burning  shore 
Dives,  while  the  sultry  tides  above  him  meet, 
And  fills  a  leathern  sack  from  waters  sweet 
That,  voiceless  and  unseen  forevermore, 
Unblending  with  the  brackish  current  pour 
From  some  remote  spring-gladdened  mountain- 
seat. 


114  SONNETS 

Thou  readest  too  my  heart  ?     In  fate  allied 
To  that  poor  diver  of  the  salt-sea  waste ; 
Finding  all  else  but  leaves  a  bitter  taste, 
Recourse  it  hath  not,  in  the  whole  world  wide, 
O  Love  !  save  where,  deep,  silent,  and  untraced, 
The  freshening  waters  flow  beneath  the  world's 
faint  tide. 


TIME 

TIME  is  no  rushing  torrent,  dark  and  hoarse, 
As  thou  hast  heard  from  bards  and  sages  old ; 
Sit  here  with  me    (wouldst   thou   the    truth  be 
hold), 

And  watch  the  current  hour  run  out  its  course. 
See  how  without  uproar  or  sullen  force 
Glides  this  slim  shadowy  rill  of  atom  gold, 
Which,  when  the  last  slow  guileful  grain  is  told, 
Forever  is  returned  unto  its  source ! 
This  is  Time's  stream,  by  whose  repeated  fall 
Unnumbered   fond    ones,    since    the  world  was 

new, 

Loitered  as  we,  unwarned  of  doom  the  while ; 
Wouldst  think  so  slender  stream  could  cover  all  ? 
But  as  we  speak,  some  eddy  draws  us,  too  — 
Meseems  dim  grow  thine  eyes  and  dim  thy  smile  ! 


MIST  115 

MIST 


Go,  search  the  vasty  reaches  of  the  Mist, 
O  Fancy  !     Haply  to  thy  favored  eyes 
Green  valleys  may  unbosom,  hills  may  rise, 
Where  only  plains  have  been.  —  Go  lightly,  hist ! 
Lurk  yonder  where    the   King  of   Elves   keeps 

tryst, 

In  soft  rose-gardens  where  the  dew  ne'er  dries  ; 
Find  out  who  listens  to  his  fluttering  sighs, 
Whose      wayward      lovely      lips      are      deftly 

kissed!  .  .  . 

Now,  more  adventurous  courses  thou  shalt  beat : 
This  path  shall  bring  thee  where  the  Wilis  lead 
Their  vacant  dance  with  ever  wilder  speed  ; 
And  this  shall  bring  thee  to  that  dim  retreat 
Where  sit  the  Fates,  and  measures  dark  repeat, 
While  they  the  driven  wheel  and  spindle  heed. 

II 

Unto  a  secret  charge  in  nature  list : 

Oh,  not  of  Evening,  bowed  on  votive  pyre, 

And  not  of  Morn,  who  with  an  urn  of  fire 

Paceth  the  hills,  a  blessed  votarist, 

And  laveth  them  with  molten  amethyst,  — 

Oh,  not  of  Evening  nor  of  Morn  inquire 

Where  throbs  the  heart  of  passion  and  desire, 

But  seek  it  in  the  white  enchanted  Mist, 


116  SONNETS 

Most  like  some  human  heart  that  would  suppress 
Its  long-time  trouble,  yet  the  blanched  cheek, 
The  veiled  eye,  the  lips  too  tremulous  weak 
To  ease  the  loaden  spirit  of  its  stress, 
Shall  the  supreme  of  passion  show  not  less 
Than  if  that  eye  glanced  fire,  those  lips  should 
speak ! 


THE   ROOF-TREE 

Now,  would  that  I  might  speak  by  breezy  leaves, 
Or  words  from  human  lips  thou  couldst  divine  ! 
For  if  I  knew  thy  speech,  or  thou  knew  mine, 
I  'd  tell  thee,  guardian  of  my  roof  and  eaves, 
What  influence  from  thee  my  life  receives, 
When  wave  in  green  those  sinewy  arms  of  thine, 
When  stripped  thou  standest  at  the  Shearer's  sign, 
Or  when  the  stealthy  night-frost's  chisel  cleaves. 
Thy  wordless  counsel  makes  me  glad  and  strong  : 
Thou  showest,  howe'er  wild  the  winters  be, 
That  they  can  do  a  rooted  power  no  wrong  ; 
And  thou  in  summer's  pleasance  teachest  me 
To  make  my  heart  the  covert  for  a  throng 
Of  singing-birds,  —  as  thou  dost,  joyous  Tree  ! 


THE   GARDEN   ON  THE  PANE 

WHERE  is  another  garden  like  to  this, 
So  rank,  so  fine,  so  hardy,  yet  so  fleeting, 


ANT  EROS  117 

Where  all  delights  of  every  zone  are  meeting  ? 

For  here  the  palm-tree  of  the  oasis, 

The  heaven-pointing  fir  thou  shalt  not  miss, 

Or  fruited  arbor-vine  and  orchard  sweeting, 

Or  bees  to  make  white  honey  for  thine  eating, 

Or  Psyche  fluttering  from  the  chrysalis  ! 

Ay,  where  is  there  a  garden  like  to  this  ? 

Here  tenderest  blooms  look  up  when  storms  are 

beating, 
And   lift   their   lips   to    take     the    East's    bluff 

greeting  ; 

Nor  ever  droops  the  bee,  though  sleet  may  hiss. 
Here  comes  no  grief,  save  from  the  Sun's  fond 

kiss, 
And    from    the   amorous    South -wind's   tearful 

cheating. 


ANTEROS 


MY  love,  thou  madest  me  to  love  thee  first. 
Then  thought  of  thee  and  thine  approach  was 

dear 

And  cordial  as  the  wind  that  winnows  clear 
The  orient  verge,  in  sad  sea-vapors  mersed, 
Ere  Guide's  vision  on  the  dark  world  burst. 
Thy  presence  was  the  Morning,  far  and  near 
With  rainbow  glamour  lighting  every  tear 
The  flower  uplifts  to  slake  the  sunbeam's  thirst. 


118  SONNETS 

My  love,  my  love,  thou  makest  me  to  fear ! 
And  now  my  soul,  like  some  low  intervale 
Where  the  cold  damps  of  night  a  mist  exhale, 
Before  thee  lies,  blind  all  its  paths  and  drear. 
And  wilt    thou    more  ?  —  despise    this  drooping 

cheer, 
When  thou  it  is  hast  caused  my  heart  to  fail ! 

II 

Thou  makest  me  to  fear,  —  to  move  in  dread, 
As  one  who  skirts  a  wood  where  every  branch 
Conceals  an  archer  swift  and  fain  to  launch 
A  noiseless  hest  to  join  the  unnumbered  dead. 
Ah,  see !     Thou  hast  thy  mordant  heart  so  fed 
With  bitter  doubt  of  mine  that,  if  I  blanch 
At  fancy  I  could  prove  to  thee  unstanch, 
Thou  deemest  me  by  guilt  disquieted ! 
Thou  mad'st  me  love,  and  mightst  have  bid  me 

show 

With  open  vein  how  quick,  how  warm,  how  red, 
The  currents  leap  at  Life's  leal  fountain-head. 
Thou  mak'st  me  fear,  and  therein  wrongest  so 
Thyself  and  Love,  thou  needs  must  have  me  foe 
Till  thou  thy  dark  ally,  Distrust,  have  sped. 

in 

If  still  thou  love,  thou  knowest,  —  thou  alone ! 
But  if  thy  purpose  bindeth  thee  to  dwell 
Intrenched  within  a  winter  citadel, 
Whence  frost  and  brume  and  flawing  storm  are 
blown, 


IN  MEMORY  \      119 

Lo  !  mine  ally  I  bring  from  near  Love's  throne,  — 
His  foster-brother  whose  great  heart  doth  swell 
At  wrongs  done  Love  ;  whose  instant  arm  doth 

fell 

All  prideful  doubt  in  brooding  darkness  grown ! 
Thus  sieged,  it  may  be  that  thou  wilt  dispel 
The  unnative  clouds,  and,  morning-bright,  emerge  : 
But  if  thou  wilt  not,  I  no  longer  urge 
Thy  laggard  dawn  ;  but,  bidding  thee  farewell, 
I  follow  Love  heard  as  a  wave-swung  bell 
When  light  is  gone  and  wildly  runs  the  surge. 


IN  MEMORY 

L.    T.    L. 


THINK  not  of  that  wild  tempest  of  the  brain 
That,  bearing  early  darkness  on  its  wing, 
Shut  down  on  her  ere  life's  mid- journey  ing  : 
Madness  to  her  clear  soul  was  not  germane, 
But  came  from  far,  as  to  Italia's  plain 
Those  blasts  that  out  of  arid  Barca  spring, 
And  for  a  season  dearth  and  faintness  bring, 
But  gone,  the  Land  wears  her  old  smile  again. 
No,  no ;  think  not  of  her,  thus  scourged  and  cum 
bered, 

But  as  ye  oft  beheld  her  long  ago, 
Roaming  through  fields  as  fair  as  Italy's  own 


120  SONNETS 

(And  dearer  loved)  —  a  flower  'mid  flowers  un 
numbered, 

Or  where  smooth  waves  of  June-grass  round  her 
flow, 

In  sunshine  space,  happy  though  all  alone. 

II 

Once  a  sweet  lady  of  a  Southern  race 
Rode   scathless  through  a  northern  wild  where 

dwelt 

A  remnant  of  uncouth  and  savage  Celt. 
At  sight  of  her  so  fearless  lovely  face, 
Unbent  was  many  a  knitted  brow  and  base ; 
Some  made  the  symbol  of  the  cross,  some  knelt, 
For  every  rugged  heart  a  memory  felt 
Of  the  Mild  Mother  in  her  pictured  grace. 
So  wert  thou  in  this  world,  spirit  all  rare  I 
A  soft  bright  passer  through  a  way  too  rude, 
Filling  all  eyes  with  thine  unconscious  share 
Of  a  Supernal  Beauty  still  pursued, 
Still  drawing  us,  until  we  greet  it  where, 
Full-orbed,  it  shines  in  heavenly  plenitude. 


AUTUMN  AND   THE  AFTERGLOW 


WHEN  the  far  woods  a  misty  veil  assume 

(The  sun  being  gone),  and  stand  in  solemn  hush, 

To  the  pale  heavens  comes  a  heightened  bloom ; 


AUTUMN  AND    THE  AFTERGLOW      121 

Slowly  it  gathers  —  an  ethereal  flush, 
Blending  the  summer  rose,  the  oriole's  breast, 
Wine,   fruit,    and    leafage    touched    to    various 

flame, 

The  candle-light  of  home  far  seen  and  blest, 
And  flower-like,  gem-like  splendors  without  name. 
This  is  the  reminiscent  Afterglow, 
Day's  riches  told  upon  the  bourn  of  Night : 
So  I,  Life's  pilgrim,  ere  from  hence  I  go, 
Resigning  the  sweet  heritage  of  light, 
Would  view  in  the  soul's  west  the  pageant  train 
Of  what  hath  been,  but  shall  not  be  again. 

II 

As  dies  the  Day  so  dies  the  blessed  Year, 
Through    dreamful    languishment    and     mystic 

trance, 

With  murmur-voiced  adieu,  and  wistful  glance 
Still  deepening  as  the  shadow  draws  more  near. 
What  is  it  wanders  with  the  thistle's  sphere, 
Or  darts  before  the  gossamer's  shimmering  lance, 
Or  mingles  with  the  lost  leaves'  elfin  dance, 
Or,  birdlike,  flutes  along  the  upland  sere  ? 
The  host  of  those  departing !     Yet,  a  while 
They  linger,  and,  with  sweet  remembering, 
Catch  back  the  tender  prattle  of  the  Spring, 
The  full  heart-throb  of  Summer  and  her  smile. 
Good-by,  fond  Day,  good-by,  regretful  Year  ! 
Ye  go  —  the  Night  and  Winter  tarry  here  ! 


122  SONNETS 

III 

Sometimes  in  the  late  Year  will  come  a  day 
Careless  that  Winterward  the  season  turns : 
Large  dew  replaces  frost,  the  bees  yet  stray, 
And,  softened  by  the  mist,  the  rare  leaf  burns 
Pale  rose,  and  tender  green,  and  amber,  too  — 
As  though  the  time  of  bursting  buds  were  near  ! 
The  breath  of  Spring  is  on  the  lingering  dew, 
Yet  ever  runs  abroad  a  whisper  sere. 
So  to  the  spirit's  lot  it  may  befall  — 
Some  dream    of   Youth    deceives  —  brief    while 

deceives ! 

My  God  !     From  me  the  Spring  is  farther  gone 
Than  in  this  hour  the  migrant  bird  whose  call 
Through  alien  lands  sounds  sweetly  at  dark  dawn, 
While  silence  deepens  round  our  vacant  eaves. 


A  LONE   SOUL   SPEAKS 

THERE  is  no  tree  of  yonder  greenwood  band 
But  hath  a  comrade,  than  the  rest  more  near, 
To  whom  it  utters  all  the  wind's  wild  cheer, 
Communing  through  blithe  leaves,  with  touches 

bland. 

Flower  leans  on  flower,  as  its  soft  leaves  expand, 
And  every  spear  of  grass  some  neighbor  spear 
Saluteth,  mingling  glistening  tear  with  tear, 
When  zephyr  and  the  dew  refresh  the  land. 


TO   THOSE   COMING  123 

So  claims  the  human  spirit  one  more  near 
To  whom  it  shows  its  counsels  brave  or  weak  ; 
If  none  be  near,  then  will  the  full  heart  call 
Impassioned,  on  the  common  heart  of  all ; 
And  when,  thus  burdened,   a    Lone    Soul  shall 


The  world,  —  the  world  at  large,  will  lend  an  ear  ! 


TO  THOSE  COMING 

WHO  are  ye  far  coming,  unseen   and  unheard, 

yet  all-potent  your  sway  — 
Less  than  a  shadow,  yet  throwing  your  shadow 

far  back  on  our  way  ? 
For  whose   eyes  are  the  life-tinted  canvas,  the 

bronze  and  the  marble  bust, 
When   alike    the    portrayed    and    portrayer    are 

gone  to  be  dust  of  the  dust  ? 
For  whom  is  the  toil  of  the  sage  sweeping  heaven 

and  earth  in  his  glance  ? 
For  whom  is  the  verse  of  the  bard,  be  it  love,  be 

it  war  that  he  chants  ? 
For  whom  is  all  Art  save  the  song  that  fleets  on 

the  wave  of  the  air, 
And  the   speech  of  the  player  that  feigneth  all 

things  between  hope  and  despair  ? 
To  whom  (wherever  ye  turn)  shall  our  suppliant 

hands  be  upcast, 
With  proffer  supine  of  the  trophies  and  triumphs 

all  time  has  amassed  ? 


124  EPILOGUE 

Who  are  ye  that  never  have  known  us,  and  yet 

shall  our  story  record, 
That  have  heard  not  accused  nor  accuser  —  and 

yet  shall  bestow  the  award  ! 
Who  are  ye  whose  breath  we  entreat,  when  our 

own  shall  be  forfeit  and  fled, 
To  speak  as  we  speak  of  the  silent  who  dwell  in 

the  realms  of  the  Dead  ? 
Declare,  are  ye  Gods,  or  the  favored  of  Gods, 

that  we  wait  your  decree, 
Are  ye  nearer  the  wondrous  Beginning,  —  more 

skilled  in  its  secret  than  we, 
Or  nearer  the  End  of  the  race,  through  the  infi 
nite  tract  of  the  years  — 
Are  ye  other  than  we,  whose  food  and  whose 

drink  are  seasoned  with  tears  ? 

No  !  not  for  you  will  I  live  but  my  own,  who 

dwell  in  To-day  ! 
Their  joy  shall  be  mine  and  their  grief,  I  will 

hang  on  the  word  they  shall  say ; 
Dearer   their   accents   germane   than    the    alien 

echoes  ye  wake  ; 
Least   service    for   them   shall   be  sweeter   than 

kingdoms  subdued  for  your  sake  ! 
I  am  even  as  one  of  a  crew  on  an  isle  of  the  sea 

cast  away, 
Whose  springs  and  wild  fruits  unnumbered  their 

thirst  and  their  hunger  allay  ; 
Where  the  wave  from  the  east  bears  the  rose  of 

the  morn  to  the  sands  at  their  feet, 


TO  THOSE  COMING  125 

And  at  noon  in  the  sylvan  crown  of  the  isle  they 

are  sheltered  from  heat ; 
Thence    down    through    the    meadows    unsown, 

where  are  none  to  reap  or  to  bind, 
They  pass  in  the  afternoon,  plucking  the  flowers 

of  the  sun  and  the  wind, 
And  come  where  the  wave  from  the  west  breaks 

the  evening  star  on  the  sands. 
So  they  live,  nor  repine  that  they  may   not    set 

sail  and  behold  other  lands  ; 

And  as  one  of  their  number  might  trace,  as  a  pas 
time  or  summer-day  task, 
A  legend  —  a  song  —  of  that  isle,  and,  sealing 

the  scroll  in  a  flask, 
Might  send  it  adrift  on  the  waves  and  reck  not 

what  fate  was  in  store  — 
If  it  come  where  men  read  or  sink  in  the  sands 

of  a  barbarous  shore  ; 
So  a  record,  perchance,  will  I  trace,  and  cast  it 

abroad  on  the  tide. 
If  it  never  shall  reach  you,  content  with  mine 

own  in  To-day  I  abide  ; 
If  it  come  by  the  wandering  flood  to  your  hands, 

and  ye  read  it  aright, 
Ye  shall  pity  not  us  who  are  gone,  but  shall  envy 

our  full  delight, 
And    chide    the  great  deep  that  has  risen  and 

hidden  forever  from  view 
The  beautiful  isle  that  received    and  sheltered 

our  castaway  crew. 


126  EPILOGUE 


SURSUM   CORDA 

UP  and  rejoice,  and  know  thou  hast  matter  for 
revel,  my  heart ! 

Up  and  rejoice,  not  heeding  if  drawn  or  undrawn 
be  the  dart 

Last  winged  by  the  Archer  whose  quiver  is  full 
for  sweeter  than  thou, 

That  yet  will  sing  out  of  the  dust  when  the  ulti 
mate  arrow  shall  bow. 

Sing   thou !  for   now   thou   mayst   sing,   though 

slender  thy  note  were,  and  harsh  ; 
Sing  as  but  once  sings  the  swan  borne  down  the 

loved  stream  of  his  marsh  ! 
In  this  thou  hast  matter  for  revel,  —  that,  sick 

and  undone  as  thou  wast 
(Thy  wit  and  thy  will  in  curious  mazes  frustrate 

and  lost), 
Emerged   art   thou   now,   neither   darkling,  nor 

blinded  by  fullness  of  light ; 
Struck   through   are    the   fetters    of    law   by   a 

Freedom  unseen,  in  the  height. 

Now  thou  couldst  laugh,  nor  thy  laughter  with 
sinister  burden  be  fraught ; 

Now  thou  couldst  weep  where  once  were  the  eye- 
strings  tensioned  with  drought ; 

Now  thou  couldst  bless  and  God-speed,  without 
bitterness  bred  in  thine  heart, 


SURSUM  CORD  A  127 

Loves,  that,  outworn  and  time-wasted,  were  fain 

from  thy  lodge  to  depart : 
Though  dulled  by  their  passing,  thy  faith,  like  a 

flower  upfolded  by  night, 
New  kindness  should  quicken  again,  as  a  flower 

feels  the  touch  of  new  light. 

Ay,  now  thou  couldst  love,  undefeated,  with  ar 
dor  instinct  from  pure  Love,  — 
Warmed  from  a  sun  in  the  heavens  that  knows 

not  beneath  nor  above, 
Nor  distance  its  patience  to  weary,  nor  substance 

unpierced  by  its  ray. 
Though  world-shadows  utter  abroad  the  figment 

of  night  and  of  day  ! 
So    should    not    error    and    evil  enchain   thee  a 

mourner  for  aye ; 
Now  couldst  thou  pity,  and  smile,  where  once  but 

the  scourge  thou  wouldst  lay ; 
Now  to  thyself  couldst  show  mercy,  and  up  from 

all  penance  arise, 
Knowing  there  runneth  abroad  a  chastening  flame 

from  the  skies. 

Doubt  not  thou  hast  matter  for  revel,  for  once 

thou  wouldst  cage  thee  in  steel, 
And,  wounded,  wouldst   seek   out  the  balm  and 

the  cordial  cunning  to  heal ; 
But  now  thou  hast  knowledge  more  sovran,  more 

kind,  than  leech-craft  can  wield  : 
Never  Design  sent  thee  forth  to  be  safe  from  the 

scath  of  the  field, 


128  EPILOGUE 

But  bade  thee  stand  bare  in  the  midst,  and  offer 

free  way  to  all  scath 
Piercing  thee  inly  —  so  only  might  Song  have  an 

outgoing  path. 
And  now  thou  couldst  sing  —  not  as  once,  in  one 

voice,  an  iterant  strain, 
But  sounding  all  measures  organic,  unstinted  of 

pleasure  or  pain ! 
Thou  fearest  no  more,  avoidest  no  more  a  fiat 

decreed, 

Nor  hopest  thou  fearingly,  reaching  forth  impo 
tent  hands  for  thy  meed. 
Now  thou  couldst  love  —  couldst  sing  —  holding 

measureless  cheer  in  thy  gift, 
For  such  as  ungirded  and  baffled  sit  down  'mid 

Time's  wreckage  and  drift. 

But  now  't  is  not  thine  to  bestow,  to  abide,  or  be 

known  in  thy  place  ; 
Withdraweth  the  voice  into  silence,  dissolveth  the 

form  and  the  face. 
Death  —  Life  thou  discernest !  Enlarged  as  thou 

art,  thy  ground  thou  must  shift ! 
Love  over-liveth.      Throb  thou    forth  quickly. 

Heart,  be  uplift! 


/  SHALL  REMEMBER  129 

I   SHALL  REMEMBER 


IN  the  dim  meadows  flecked  with  asphodel 

I  shall  remember ! 

I  shall  not  quaff 

The  waters  of  the  immemorial  well, 
That  darkly  laugh,  throwing  oblivious  spell. 
The  cup  of  memory  I  shall  bear,  shall  drain 

Again  —  again  —  again  — 

Down  to  the  draff  ! 

I  shall  remember. 

II 

I  shall  not  drink  the  waters  of  that  well ; 

I  shall  remember  ! 

Far  from  all  mirth 

I  will  make  glad,  make  mad,  the  souls  that  dwell 
In  pale  content  obscure  ;  for  I  will  tell 
It  is  the  Earth,  once  theirs  they  blindly  seek 

In  search  too  weak,  too  weak,  — 

It  is  the  Earth  ! 

I  shall  remember. 

in 

In  the  dim  meadows  flecked  with  asphodel 

I  shall  remember  ! 

Fadeless  it  blows. 

All  sweetest  blooms  with  Earth  and  Change  do 
dwell, 


ISO  EPILOGUE 

And  in  their  greeting  mingle  a  farewell,  — 
More  dear  because  they  droop,  they  fade,  they 


The  rose  of  love,  alas  ! 
The  rose,  the  rose 
I  shall  remember. 

IV 

I  shall  not  drink  the  waters  of  that  well ; 

I  shall  remember, 

And  weary  not 

Crying,  "  Ye  shadowy  dancers  in  the  dell, 
And  ye  whose  shadowy  arms  do  but  compel 
A  shadowy  foe,  —  this  is  not  mirth,  not  strife ! 

This  is  not  life,  not  life  ! 

Have  ye  forgot  ?  " 

I  shall  remember. 


iiccotbor 

V 


K.UUW      -LfcUlU 

. 


l'cJ2t 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


